#I say as though him being a sheep farmer in his past was mentioned more than once

[autistic-fool-with-ideas]

We should draw Hooper with more sheep motifs

[noctusfury]

Mildew’s Wives (RoB/HTTYD Theory)

Hello, everyone! Welcome to another HTTYD article! Today we’ll dive into the topic concerning Mildew’s wives, which we see in the first episode of Riders of Berk. And are also mentioned in the 5th episode “In Dragons We Trust”.

Perhaps I’m the only person who is interested in this, or even remembers this since these are just background portraits of his ex-wives. But I can’t help but want to pursue this and figure it out!

If you’re interested in my other Mildew article where I dive into who inherited his farm after his outlawry, click here.

Now we know from what was said from Stoick and Gobber that Mildew was a long-standing dragon slayer with a marvelous reputation back in his younger days when dragon raids were common. As, I assume, his father before him. Interestingly enough, since it feels implied that it was in the more recent decades that Berk sent Mildew far from the village due to his unpleasant personality, it could be assumed that he might’ve been different when he was younger. 

Of course, we don’t know what or when Mildew became “the Very Unpleasant”. That being said, he’s mentioned to be very hideous and even implied to be unhygienic. So that could also be why, as he’s a cabbage farmer, owns a sheep, and doesn’t seem to take a bath at all. He also has a very hairy back, according to Gobber after he treated him.

Funnily enough, his wives also seem to be... equally unpleasant. Naturally, we know very little about his past and what he went through back then, nor about what his wives might’ve been like. (Which is a bit of a shame.) 

Of course, I find it funny that they were as hideous as he was. Though he probably married them as formal alliances with other families during his famous dragon-slaying days. Or maybe he was desperate because nobody else would marry him, due to his unpleasant nature (in many ways). Whoever they were and whatever they were like — or even if they were natives to Berk or outsiders — we’ll never know. It’s up to anyone’s interpretation.

In "In Dragons We Trust", Mildew mentions that he had three wives, who all died at some point, to which he states are “pleasant memories,” suggesting he did not like them despite being married to them. (And it may be assumed that they also didn’t like him just as much.)

Now, of course, we could assume that they died from various things: childbirth, disease, an accident, even dragon attacks. Or perhaps they died from the same thing. We don’t know.

However, there could be a much more... macabre alternative.

Murder.

In the episode “In Dragons We Trust”, we see Mildew grab and use dragon claws and feet to frame the dragons in order to banish them from Berk. He then throws them away to get rid of the evidence, possibly knowing that Hiccup and the Gang would eventually find them and he’d get in trouble for it.

Now, this looks like Nightmare claws and... Zippleback feet? But these seem to be some of his trophies he’s won from back in his younger days as a renowned warrior. 

Now I’m sure you’re curious as to why I brought up the “murder” option. It sounds more like he didn’t do any of that from what he says, as it implies that their deaths happened without him having to do anything. 

But this is a “what-if” scenario. What if he bumped off one or even all three of his ex-wives and used these tools to frame the dragons for having killed them?

Think about it. The fact that he even HAS these to begin with is rather sus. I mean, what would he even need these for, if not for what he did to his wives in the past? The claw thingy makes for a terrible backscratcher, and the dragon feet I can’t see anyone using unless they have some sort of winter-proof function that we don’t know about.

But the fact Mildew has these tools at all is rather sus, like I said previously. Why even have them at all except to having used them to frame dragons before for previous wrongdoings?

Plus, when he came home, he greeted the portraits callously by saying, “I’m back home, ladies!! Eh? What’s that, ya say? Nothing? Perfect!”

After claiming those tools, he says to Fungus, “These have served us well, haven’t they, Fungus?” While he was obviously talking about the incidents with framing the dragons, it’s obvious he had these long before that, which is sus. Again, I highly doubt he uses them as winter boots and a backscratcher, so why else would he have them and why would they have served him well save for using them for murder?

Of course, I don’t know when Mildew was banished to this far-off house and farm plot, but it sounds like it was anywhere between 10-20 years ago. Heck, it could even be even longer, but Gobber said, “Why do you think we sent ya to the other side of the village?” so that kinda implies that it was within 10 or so years. No more than 20. Or maybe it might’ve been only 5 years. We just don’t know. 🤔

Anyway, I’m digressing. Point is that he’s a farmer, so he could’ve lived close to the village, or maybe he was even a resident inside the village, so maybe it might’ve been difficult to stage a murder. However, if he was living NEAR the village, then he might have the opportunity to get rid of his wives during dragon raids. Maybe even burn his own house to drive it home. Or, assuming he was still married (at least to his third and last wife), it would’ve been easy to do it at his isolated farm and especially during a dragon raid.

However, again, it’s probably unlikely, but with Mildew being Mildew, I wouldn’t put it past him. But it could be that he never did that and that those deaths are very natural. But it’s an interesting plausibility.

What do you guys think? Do you think it’s possible?

Thank you very much for reading! And I hope to see you in the next article!

Long Live the Night!

— Noctus Fury

[weirwoodking]

hey man i was just giving my point/seeing if you knew something i didn’t because yeah, to my knowledge so far it is heavily implied within the series the you need some blood to specifically RIDE A DRAGON (not be a hero, in general) im not saying tyrion won’t, i think so far it’s been set up with his interest in dragon lore that he’ll figure it out, but to hop on in the standard way it seems like necessity? if there are any metas about it id love to read them, but- (p1 sorry)

(p2) from what i’ve read the only ~maybe~ evidence that there isn’t some blood magic going on is nettles. and that’s a big maybe. Like, i swear im not coming at this from an ablistic/valaryan supremacy standpoint but those sheep farmers clearly did SOMETHING, that they decided was hard enough to pull off again they’d rather marry their siblings. and the other similar magic system we’ve seen in the books- skinchanging/warging- has also been heavily connected with bloodlines and maybe past magic

I wrote this response before you sent part 2, and so I do see you’ve read about Nettles. I recommend this analysis by felonyofasshai about that.

A good line to take away from it is: if i were to say, "only people with blond hair can eat toffee", and then never let anyone without blond hair near toffee, obviously the result would be that only blond people ate toffee.

The Valyrian empire and the Targaryen dynasty relied on keeping the dragons in their control. They needed everyone to believe it could only be them.

There is also no guarantee that Valyrian blood makes someone a dragonrider. Quentyn is an example of this. His Valyrian blood did not protect him from the dragons.

And, neither did Dany’s. Let’s analyze the Daznak’s Pit scene.

“Drogon,” she screamed. “Drogon.”

His head turned. Smoke rose between his teeth. His blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing. He snapped.

“No” was all that she had time to say. No, not me, don’t you know me? The black teeth closed inches from her face. He meant to tear my head off. The sand was in her eyes. She stumbled over the pitmaster’s corpse and fell on her backside.

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon’s long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from him, he will burn me and devour me.

[...]

Drogon roared full in her face, his breath hot enough to blister skin. Off to her right Dany heard Barristan Selmy shouting, “Me! Try me. Over here. Me!”

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon’s eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. I cannot let him see my fear. She scrabbled in the sand, pushing against the pitmaster’s corpse, and her fingers brushed against the handle of his whip. Touching it made her feel braver. The leather was warm, alive. Drogon roared again, the sound so loud that she almost dropped the whip. His teeth snapped at her.

Drogon does not recognize Dany, he does not stop from attacking her. Until....

Dany hit him. “No,” she screamed, swinging the lash with all the strength that she had in her. The dragon jerked his head back. “No,” she screamed again. “NO!” The barbs raked along his snout. Drogon rose, his wings covering her in shadow. Dany swung the lash at his scaled belly, back and forth until her arm began to ache. His long serpentine neck bent like an archer’s bow. With a hisssssss, he spat black fire down at her. Dany darted underneath the flames, swinging the whip and shouting, “No, no, no. Get DOWN!” His answering roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain. His wings beat once, twice…

...and folded. The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly.

It was not Dany’s Targaryen blood that tamed Drogon. It was her courage, it was her being brave even though she was afraid. If Dany had not stood up in that pit with the whip in her hand and hit Drogon with all the strength she had in her, no amount of Valyrian blood would have saved her.

Furthermore, Dany herself does not believe that the other riders have to be Targaryens.

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters. (Daenerys VI, ASOS)

As far as Dany knows, she is the last Targaryen alive. She also does not think “okay, I need to find some Velaryons or Celtigars or Lyseni men”. Dany does not seem to believe that Valyrian blood is needed for dragonriding.

Targaryen blood purity is a lie. It was always a lie. Whether the Targaryens truly believed you had to have Valyrian blood to ride a dragon or not, it was still a lie.

Now, you mentioned skinchanging/warging as a genetic thing. Skinchanging/warging is a gift given by the Old Gods. It seems to have been frequently given to House Stark. However, there is no implication that there is a blood purity competent. For example, there haven’t been any known/recorded Stark wargs in the recent centuries (although we can suspect that that used to be more common), but suddenly all six Stark kids ended up as wargs. So it doesn’t seem like anything that relies on a strong gene purity. While the Starks are known for their “wolf blood”, this is most likely a term passed down from the days when the Starks would more frequently receive the gift of warging. Perhaps they sacrificed to the Old Gods to increase their chances of receiving this gift. But again, blood purity is not what made the entire current Stark generation wargs.

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

What are the major details that confused you about the Hound blurb? The major one that stood put to me was the "way of the farmer opposed to the sword" thing which felt very...un-Cú Chulainn. Also, if you don't mind expanding further, which details didn't you question/be confused by?

and also for anon:

okay so it is like. 2am so there are not going to be any sources here but i can't sleep so here goes!! i will go through this blurb line by line and give youse my thoughts

In 50 BCE,

reasonable. this is roughly the right time period for when the ulster cycle is set. maybe marginally earlier than i'd place cú chulainn, but i'm talking a few years, nothing to get worked up about.

Morrigan, the goddess of war,

fine. normally i'm wary of pantheonising impulses with regard to irish characters (almost none of them can be identified as a god of anything in particular, it doesn't work like that) but tbh the morrigan is like, the most plausible exception to that, so whatever. normally her name has the definite article attached to it because it's kind of a species term as well but whatevs.

has become restless as a long-lasting peace settles over Ireland.

dubious. closest i can think of to peace being reference in any texts is togail bruidne da derga talking about conaire mor's reign being like, prosperous and peaceful and whatever, and even there you've got díberg (plundering/reaving) which is what eventually fucks him over and starts the otherworldly hell spiral situation. that's roughly the right period here but conaire's doom proves you don't have to do much to nudge peace into war, and connacht and ulster are at each other's throats for years before cú chulainn comes on the scene anyway

Deciding the time of peace must end, she chooses Setanta, the nephew of the king of the north, to become her ward.

hmm. i mean. like, this isn't the WEIRDEST choice they could have made. it's still completely made-up, don't get me wrong -- cú chulainn has a lot of different foster parents in different texts and they don't agree with each other but none of them ever mentions the morrígan. but like, they do have a connection of some sort, as evidenced by their conversations. and there's that one moment in the r1 boyhood deeds where little cú chulainn is out on the battlefield and hears her (not sure which name is used here) calling out to him and it like. motivates him to do some deeds or whatever, and i guess you could extrapolate that into some kind of teaching capacity.

so like. could be weirder. if you're gonna pick anyone, you could do worse. still seems weird to me! but not on its own a major issue, i could get past this and consider it a Fun But Unorthodox Creative Decision

(the fact that she tries to seduce him in the táin probably wouldn't get in the way of this considering sleeping with his teachers/foster-mothers is far from unheard of where cú chulainn is concerned)

After a young Setanta slays the demon-hound of Cullan, he becomes known as Cú Cullan—The Hound of Cullan.

weird spelling choices, they could have at least bothered to use the genitive properly. also the hound isn't a demon, it's a ferocious watchdog -- making it sound all Otherworldly and Hellish like this kinda confuses the issue of why he would need to take its place. he needs to take its place because the cattle and people still need protecting because it is a watchdog!! but whatevs, again, it's a brief summary so they can't exactly give us all the details and this is not actively objectionable

As Cú Cullan grows older, it is apparent that an extraordinary power lies within him … and a great darkness.

ugh boring. this makes it sound like he's going to be ~tortured~ and angsty about it. give me an unapologetic murder teen please. is the ríastrad dark? sure i guess, if you're going to be boring about it. it's more like, grotesque neon in my head

When he chooses the quiet life of a farmer over the sword,

this would fucking never happen on like five different levels. obviously like anyone who has ever read anything about cú chulainn can see that this is not in his nature. he is never going to choose a quiet life. this is the kid who tricked his way into taking arms before everyone thought he was ready. also juxtaposed with the "darkness" comment makes it sound like he would Angst his way into this quiet life which. again. have you seen this kid. he is an unapologetic murder teen

the only thing i can think of that might make him temporarily want to walk away is connla's death which... depends where you position that in the timeline really, he does seem a bit fucked up by it and maybe he'd want a holiday although i can see that lasting precisely 5 minutes before someone pissed him off enough for him to murder them. but if he's being raised by the morrígan i can't see him going to train with scáthach so then he'd never meet aífe and therefore connla would never be born so that wouldn't happen. so like. whatever.

but also like. he would not become a farmer. he just wouldn't! it doesn't work! the ireland of the stories is super hierarchical, right? and this blurb has already fucking told us that he's the king's nephew (canon) so we can tell that being a farmer is Not His Place. when we see upper class figures becoming menial labourers in texts, like in cath maige tuired, it's because Things Are Fucked, Shit's Gone Wrong. people don't just decide to change their entire social class on a whim lmfao

if cú chulainn really wanted to turn his back on being a warrior he could probably make recourse to certain other Suitable Professions ... his grandad's a druid so he might have a route into that, though his dad's not so that might fuck things up a bit bc it's one of those things that's usually inherited. he does give "wisdom" in at least one text though and we also know he can write (he carves riddles in ogham in the táin) and he composes verses on various occasions so idk, maybe something in a poetic direction, though again, usually requires two generations of inheritance to be a real poet and not just a lower-class bard. warrior's kinda the main thing he's got open to him tbh. but farming? i'm not a legal expert but as far as i'm aware based on what i have read, that would fuck shit up

more likely an upset cú chulainn would just go off in search of an adventure somewhere conveniently far away until he'd calmed down (alba, or the tyrrhenian sea, or -- if we're going to get early modern about it -- somewhere like india, which frequently gets thrown into the texts with absolutely no cultural context and it's always hilarious)

Morrigan, angry at the betrayal,

of the entire social order, yes,

instigates an invasion of his homeland

i mean. if they intend this to be the táin then.... táin bó regamna does kinda make the morrígan responsible for it? not in the sense of triggering the pillow talk argument that it's in the book of leinster -- it's her getting up to her usual cow-nicking behaviours for shits and giggles. [note to readers: it is probably for more than shits and giggles but did i mention it's 2am]

but all in all, not particularly out of character that she would be at least some way responsible for this so i can vibe with this. echtra nerai also supports the TBR explanation with her fucking around with otherworldly cows and pissing people off so, yeah, whatever. the morrígan engineered this. sure.

and Cú Cullan must challenge fate itself

this is probably a controversial stance but fate feels like a difficult concept to apply to medieval irish texts. like are people sometimes Doomed? yes. there are prophecies, there are gessi, there's all manner of otherworldly fuckery that can trip you up. is that the same thing as fate? no idea. considering cú chulainn comes out alive from the táin though and his doom prophecies don't catch up to him for like, at least another decade, maybe 16 years depending on who you listen to, hard to see how that would apply here

to keep the goddess at bay.

again like she IS causing fuckery in the táin but also it's like... one time. really not the main character. but she or maybe just some crows, hard to say, do get implicated in the death tale so maybe they're doing what people often do and conflating the two? even though there's like 10-16 years in between them?

anyway as you can see i don’t think it’s wholly terrible / i’m not completely thinkshaming it. like, having cú chulainn raised by the morrígan is unorthodox but it could be a fun and creative direction so i don't object to it. making cú chulainn get sad about murder and choose to be a farmer is just fucking laughable tho, and makes me doubt their characterisations in general. so that's offputting and would probably make me think twice about buying it, if that had ever been on the cards.*

and of course sure, their cú chulainn can be a Sad Boy Who Likes Sheep, but that means he's not the cú chulainn of medieval irish lit / irish myth, because that cú chulainn is a feral murder teen who keeps killing his friends and also is way too high social status to ever be a farmer, and whose only relationship to livestock is as the watchdog who kills anyone trying to harm them (which is an important role on a farm! but like. not the same thing as Being A Farmer. mostly because it involves more murder and is essentially just an extension of his role as a warrior. or rather the other way around. he promises to protect mag muirthemne as a watchdog and this like. gets extended into him becoming its sole defender)

this has been my analysis of this blurb i hope you enjoyed it

it's now 2.30am i should try and sleep now that i've exorcised a few thoughts from my head

*as i mentioned in the tags of my other post, i don't tend to read graphic novels due to disability stuff. they're much harder for me to understand and follow than prose, to the point where some are incomprehensible, so i don't really enjoy them. there are a few i've read, but they tend to be short ones, and i'm usually not reading them in order, just admiring the art separately from the text. so it's unlikely i would read a graphic novel of this size anyway.

[jloves-pp]

The Story of Merida and Hiccup part 3

Chapter 3-Dining with Royalty

Merida, Hiccup, Toothless and Angus had been travelling to DunBroch for what was feeling like hours. The sun was setting as the Merida and Hiccup had been chatting and questioning each other. Hiccup asked Merida what Angus was and she was surprised that he never seen or heard of horses.

"Didn't you have horses?" Merida questioned.

"No, we don't but our dragons more than filled that role", Hiccup stated.

"Well horses can't fly or breathe fire" Merida commented.

"True but when one accidentally sets one of houses on fire, then you can start to have second thoughts about a species", Hiccup said. He and Toothless were glancing around as they walked, he had to admit, the woodlands were beautiful and he felt like he was at home.

"Speaking of dragons, why do you call him Toothless?" Merida then asked, looking down at them from her horse. She watched as the dragon looked up at her and he's teeth disappeared into his mouth.

"Did I just..."

"Yeah, that's why I call him Toothless" Hiccup expected, "Yeah, I know very original", he added sarcastically.

Merida let out a small laugh. "Well it suits him", she then said. "Are there other kind of dragons or do they all look like him?

"Yes, there all sorts of different dragons, we still finding all kind of breeds" Hiccup said excited whenever he talked about dragons.

"Like what?"

Well, there's Gronckle they are big, like a boulder with little wings, one of my friends has one. Then there a Zippleback they have two heads, one can breathe gas and the other lights it, they are pretty cool. Deadly Naddder, they have great tails in to fight with. Monstrous Nightmare, can light their bodies on fire, it's not good to ride on them then as you can imagine and of course the Night Furry, that's what you are, isn't it Bud" when Hiccup mention Night Furry, his purred happily.

Merida was going to ask more about the Toothless when she noticed something in the distance.

"Hiccup look" she told him, pointed ahead. Both Hiccup and Toothless looked up and saw far across water, on a cliff stand a stone castle. A long wall circled the kingdom and Hiccup could see tiny figures of people, even knowing it was the home of his enemies, he really likes the kingdom.

"Wow, its amazing" Hiccup exclaimed, Toothless agreed with him with a purr.

"Aye, there no place like it" Merida said smiley at her home.

"Is there a Royal family live in the castle?" Hiccup then asked.

"Aye, there is" Merida answered.

"I wonder if there's a princess.

"Aye, there is one".

"I bet she's beautiful!"

Merida checks turned red, "Well maybe she not that beautiful, in my opinion, even though her parents tell her she is, I don't think she cares about her looks, sorry, I am rambling on... Well it's nearly dinner time and we have to go".

"Oh ok then", Hiccup replied. As they set off again, down to the path that led to the kingdom.

"We hopefully have some spare rooms for you and Toothless" Merida said as they could see the bridge ahead.

"Yeah, about that, do you know any good places around there for Toothless" Hiccup asked stopping his dragon, this brought Merida and Angus to a stop.

"Why?"

"Well, unless they don't enjoy fighting, hurting and killing. It better hide him to be safe", he heard his dragon complain with a grown.

"He doesn't like that idea", Merida said, smirking. Knowing what Toothless was thinking.

"We can't risk it, Bud" Hiccup said rubbing Toothless's head. They were drawn towards a noise in the distance as the noise drew nearer they could tell no it was the sound of horse hooves and the horse and rider could now be seen in the distance.

Before Merida realise it, Hiccup and Toothless disappeared behind a huge bush. She thought that Hiccup was hiding the dragon away from sight. She jumped off Angus as she recognises rider was one of the guards.

"Hello Jamie, are you off with the messages?" Merida said, noticing his satchel, that usually contained letters from the clans".

"Aye your highness, the Queen just gives me a last minute gift for young MacGuffin". He answered looking at the bag before saying, "Well I had better be off. Farewell Princess", and with that, he rode off. Merida made a simple wave after him.

"You're... You're the princess?" Merida jumped slightly when she heard Hiccup's voice. She nearly forgot about him and turned to see a stunned look for on his face. Hiccup had heard everything while hiding with Toothless. "Oh...I...I...I'm sorry. Forgive princess", he apologised and started bowing rapidly", if I'd have know, I won't have...ur what I'm trying to say...it just...I didn't know". He fumbled his words. The princess could only watch as the boy bowed. She glanced over to Toothless who was just as confused by Hiccup.

"Please don't", Merida quickly said holding out her hands, which Hiccup stopped mid bow. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you but really have never liked all that fuss and people acting like fools around me, so..." Merida explained as she crossing her arms, She wasn't sure she was explaining herself properly.

"No, it's ok!", she turned back and saw Hiccup a few feet from her. "It's hard being yourself when everyone else expects you to be different".

Hearing these words, Merida felt comforted. Maybe there was more to this boy! She thought, they smiled at each other then they heard Toothless purring.

"Oh, right let's find a place from Toothless, I think there's a dark part of woods near here", she said as she pointed to her right.

As she started to head in the direction, Hiccup thought over what just happened. He knew being around a Scot was bad, but finding out that she is the princess of the kingdom was worst. If anyone found the truth. He would be put to death instantly, so now he had to be more careful. He told himself that he need to get the tail fin fix and get back home! But he wanted to get know more about this princess.

"Hey, Hiccup. Are you coming?" He heard Merida called and turned to see both her and the dragon were ahead of him.

"Yeah, hang on", he answered and hurried to join them. They soon reached a small cleaning that had a small cave, Merida explained to them it use to be a bear cave but it's been empty for years, she pointed out a and a small burn nearby and explained that maybe some fish could be caught there if they were lucky.

Hiccup and Merida made sure that the Night Fury was comfortable and remove the saddle and Hiccup's harness, they went back to get Angus and walked into the kingdom. The Viking was surprised when they walked toward the entrance gate. He could see tents, stalls and stables with people being busy, bustling around.

"So, when do the all the people live?" He asked as Merida led Angus to his stable.

"Some live in the castle but most of the people live near by. Some live out by the fields and the vegetables patches, and so out by the coast so they can catch fish", she explained as she feed her horse and then started brushing him.

"It's, well it's just different from my home" Hiccup said.

"Oh, what's your home like?" Merida asked. He hesitated, he knew he shouldn't mention about the whole Viking thing but he didn't know when to start.

"Ur, well...there so much, I don't know where to start", Hiccup admitted truthfully.

"Well, you can tell me at dinner, now come on".

Merida said smiling and then took Hiccup by the hand and pulled him along with her.

Hiccup couldn't get a word in as Merida led him to a door that connected to the kitchens, He saw mostly women preparing food. They all stopped and said "good evening Princess", as Merida past all of them noticed the strange boy with her. Hiccup waved politely in acknowledgement of them before him and Merida went up the stairs and he noticed tapestries covering lots of the walls as they made their way to the great hall. As they reach the hall they could hear voices, the voices getting louder as they got closer.

"Honestly Lass. How is it hard to tell one man sheep from another mans sheep? Truly they all looked the same", a man said loudly.

"Well, we need a solution soon or we'll have two farmers at war", the woman's voice answered.

When Hiccup and Merida entered the hall they could see a long table with five seats. At one end was a huge man with a red moustache, he was chewing a chicken leg. At the other end of the table was an elegant woman with long brown hair, surrounded by letters and in three of seats, were three little identical boys each had a mass of red hair. Hiccup instantly knew that they were Merida's family. Merida looked liked her mother, with exception for the red hair she had inherited that from her dad.

Merida let go of Hiccup before she walked up to them.

"Well I think...oh Merida", Fergus was clearly happy to see his daughter. "Your just in time to eat before the boys ate everything", he added chuckle.

"There's plenty dad, for all we know they could have a secret stash underneath their bed", Merida joked looking over to Hamish, Hubert and Harris with a sisterly smile.

"How was trip dear?" Elinor then asked, looking up from the letter, giving a warm smile to her.

"Oh just the usual, riding Angus and shooting arrows and a bit of bad weather!", Merida told them.

Hiccup watched the family as they chatted about their day, he hadn't expected to see the royal family interacting like this, and at home it was just him and his dad so he couldn't help but smile that this scene.

Out of nowhere, the boy heard a loud, angry noise. He then saw two strange creatures covered in fur heading his way. Hiccup backed off as his heart pounded.

"Oh. Leave the lad alone" Merida's dad yelled "chew on this", and he threw some chicken legs to the dogs, the greyhounds were distracted and they turned to eat the meat.

"Merida, who is this boy?" Merida mother question.

"Oh", she quickly came to Hiccup side and gently pulled him by arm. "I like you to meet Hiccup".

Fergus nearly let out a laugh but stopped and coughed when he noticed his wife gave him a warning look.

"It's nice to meet, your Majesty" Hiccup said bowed.

The queen softly smiled at the boy before asking "How long have you know my daughter?"

"Actually we just met today", Merida intervened "I found him injured and I had to make sure he was ok"

"Oh dear" Elinor said surprised, not only for Hiccup but also Merida's actions. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no. I have a few cuts and bruises but I'm fine", Hiccup reassured, waving his hands.

"Oh if you're sure", Elinor said, Fergus joined in and stated "You two must be starving, come and sit down".

"Oh no, I don't want to disturb you dinner ", Hiccup said quickly.

"No, I insist, we'll find a chair for you", Elinor insisted and had two servants fetch one and place it next to Merida's seat. The young boy wanted to say no as Merida took her seat but he reluctantly sat down.

"So, Merida, what happened out there?" Elinor asked her daughter.

"I was about to come back when there was a storm, that's when..." Merida began but then

"That's when her horse got scared and ran off", Hiccup told. Merida looked at him, confused but it clicked. He wanted to protect his dragon.

She showed a knowing smile before telling the story. "Aye, I chased after him and we ended up by the water edge. That's when I found Hiccup".

The rest of family was listening eagerly. "So what where you doing in DunBroch by the young man", Fergus asked Hiccup.

"Well, me and my friend were...Ur sailing when we were court up in storm and landed here", Hiccup answered

"Where is your friend? The Queen asked.

"He volunteered to stay with the boat. it's ok, he can take care of himself"

"Well good, he doesn't need to worry about Mor'du roaming around" Fergus commented.

"The boy has been through enough, he doesn't need to hear about our evil bear", Elinor told him.

As the grownups chatted, Merida got a plate and put some food on it. "Here, there more if you're still hungry", Merida said gently put the plate in front of Hiccup. It was the same food as they had in Berk. Chicken, pork, vegetables and haggis but they seem bigger and full of colour. Hiccup took a small bite of beef and vegetables and he paused, the taste was like fireworks in his mouth. He never had tasted flavours so strong and amazing in his life.

"Are you all right Hiccup?" He heard Merida asked.

"Oh yeah" Hiccup answered swallowing his food. "It just I never thought food could taste so good"

"What foods do you usually have" Merida asked.

"The same but my home, are food is a bit tougher and bland". Hiccup expected.

"So where do you live Hiccup?" The queen then asked.

Hiccup took a moment before he said "well it's on an island in the middle of nowhere, we have hunting. Fishing and a wonderful views especially of the sunsets"

"That's sounds lovely", Elinor said but her face dropped "But your parents Hiccup! They must be worried sick".

Merida notices Hiccup face drop, " It's just me and dad".

"Oh, I'm sorry" Elinor apologise to him.

"It's fine, really." Hiccup said reassuring them. He was used to people knowing what happened to his mum. Of course they wouldn't have known.

Merida could see an uneasy look at Hiccup's face. She thought maybe he never knew his mum, it make her think of when she nearly lost her mum. Merida didn't want this melancholy atmosphere over everyone.

"He'll be fine here" Fergus reassured. "He'll send a letter to them, saying he's all right and he'll be home in no time".

Hiccup and Merida could see Elinor's face relax. "Right we'll get a room made up for you", then she had two maids sent to set up a room. The rest of the dinner was really pleasant. Merida's parents asked Hiccup question about home but Hiccup was careful to avoid mention some details.

After they finished, Elinor told Merida where Hiccup his room. It didn't take long for Merida to find it, Hiccup had a good looked around. The room had a warm cosy feeling, it had a big fireplace, a four posted bed with green curtains surrounding it.

"So do you like it? Is there anything wron?." Merida began ''but...''

Oh no, no, no, it's really nice. It's a lot nicer than my room back home" Hiccup turned and explained, waving his hands.

"Ok" she said a bit relieved. Hiccup walked up the big bed, he was used to his wooden bed but this bed had a mattress that was so soft.

"My room is down the hall, my parents and brothers are a bit further down and if you need anything, let..." Merida had turned and pointed the hallway but when she'd look back, Merida found Hiccup lying on the bed, already asleep.

She was surprised but then realise that he been through so much today, he must be exhausted she thought. Merida smiled before she closed the door and went to bed.

The next day, in the woods. Toothless who was hanging upside down from a tree, he yawned and opened his tired eyes. He wondered how his best friend was doing when his stomach growled. He had eaten 3 fishes from the river late but he had gone to sleep hungry night. Even though it was a risk, the Night Fury decided to visit the kingdom. It was early in the morning so barely anyone should be around; Toothless managed hide and to slip toward the gate once the way was clear and he passed the guards without being seen.

When the dragon saw two humans, men on guard duty, Toothless thought they looked weird, he was used the Vikings, but their clothes were different, seeing men wearing pleated checked skirts was very strange. As he searched for Hiccup, he sniffed the air until he smelt that familiar smell of fish. He followed it before he reached a door that was open slightly, he pushed it open and found heaps and heaps of recently caught fish, his mouth had began to drewl, he licked his lips, he was very please himself and his find.

Maudie the head maid had finished mending a dress for the queen. On the way back to the kitchen, she heard odd noises coming from the fish hold. Without thing she found herself slowly pushing open the door to reveal a mess of knocked over baskets, fish bones and half eaten fish. The creator of this disorder was a giant black monster lizard with wings. Toothless looked up to noticed the shocked maid; he simply smiled to her, Maudie screamed and ran for her life. Toothless looked on confused, he thought she was an odd woman.

Hiccup was had had a peaceful sleep and when he awoke, yawned and stretch. He wondered why Toothless hadn't woken him, when he opened his eyes, he realised that he wasn't at home and Toothless wasn't with him as usual. Looking around at room, he remembered yesterday, it all came back to him. Him and Toothless flying in a huge black cloud and ending up in Scotland and now he had stayed in this castle of the enemy. He also remembered Merida finding them; Hiccup began to thinking of the princess but stopped himself. "I should get breakfast now".

Hiccup headed downstairs and was told by one of the guards where breakfast was to be severed. He found the King, the Queen and the triples were already eating.

"Good morning Hiccup. Do you have a good sleep?" Elinor asked as she waved her arm gesturing where to sit.

"Good, in fact it the best sleep I ever had", Hiccup said while putting some food on his plate. "Where's Merida?"

"Probably still a sleep, that's where she's usually is at this time of day!" Fergus answered.

"Where I am usually?" They turned to see Merida come in, grinning modestly.

"Oh there you are!" Fergus greeted her as she sat next to Hiccup. "We surprised you're up this early".

"Well, I wanted to show Hiccup around DunBroch while he is here", Merida explained then turn to Hiccup "If that's ok with Hiccup?"

"Yeah, I like to and...", but before he could finished. They suddenly heard someone scream for dear life. The sound got louder and louder and the door burst opened and Mandie ran in. Fergus had jumped up.

"Mandie, are you all right?" The Queen asked getting up and rushing the woman side. Elinor and Fergus began to calm her so she could catch her breath and be able to speak.

Mandie tried to talk but all that came out was "d...d...d...d...d"

"What is to Mandie?" Elinor asked the poor woman, she kept asked but no responses.

This frustrated king held his head, "Ock don't fash , spit it out Mandie".

"...DRAGON! Dragon…dragon!

Hearing this, everyone looked confused except Hiccup and Merida who exchanged worries looks at each other.

"What? You must be working too hard", Fergus said thinking she was just hallucinating but Elinor though otherwise.

"Show us where you seen it" she said nodding a little at her husband.

They encouraged Maudie back to the fish hold with some reluctance she lead the way. The redhead could see the fear and worry on Hiccups face, before she could say anything him, they reach the room. Fergus held his sword ready; he swung opened the door and found...Nothing, nothing but a mess of fish.

"Well, no dragon but something has definitely been in here", The King declared. Merida and Hiccup breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the Nightfury got away.

"But it was here!" Maudie protested as she sat on the floor "it was big and black with green eyes and...and...No teeth!"

"NO TEETH" Fergus repeated in disbelief ", what kind of dragon has no teeth".

Hiccup squeezed his eyes when he heard that. Merida did heard him murmured something under his breath, it sounded like "Nightfurrys had retractable teeth"

Elinor knelt down to the maid and patted her hand supportively "Maybe it was a bear that you saw".

"Well if it is, let's hope we go don't go through the whole the bear incident again", Fergus said before turning the guards and telling them to keep an eye out any suspicious.

Elinor asked her daughter to help Maudie to her room, Hiccup offered to help. What they didn't notice was Hamish had spotted something in the room; he motioned to his brother to see. Hamish picked up what look like a black flat stone but it didn't quite feel like one. The triplets soon found more and quickly left to investigate the stones.

Merida and Hiccup helped Maudie into bed while Elinor poured some water for her and told her to the rest as she drew her curtains and they left the room.

"There, with some peace and quiet, she'll be better soon", Elinor reassured Merida and Hiccup as they walked to the kitchen.

"Do you think what she saw was real?" Merida asked.

"Well, from what we all been through, nothing will surprised me", her mother answered.

"Ok, we better head out now" Hiccup then said. He and Merida began to head to the door...

"Wait, take this" Elinor called to them. She gave Hiccup a small parcel. "This is for your friend. He must be hungry being out there minding the boat and be careful there could be a bear about!"

"Well my friend does have a big appetite", Hiccup said which was true. Hiccup and Merida went to get Angus and headed to the forest. It didn't take long for them to find the dragon. Even though Toothless had his back to them, Hiccup knew what he was doing. "Toothless. What were you thinking?"

Heading towards him Hiccup yell, Toothless turned with a fish's tail was sticking out of his mouth. Seeing the evidence, he suck it up and swallowed it.

"Toothless, this isn't Berk. These people have never had seen a dragon. So if they found you, they won't think twice of hunting you" Hiccup explained to his friend. Toothless growled in understand of his meaning.

Merida watched them in fascination. Even know the dragon didn't speak, the two were having a conversation. She of course talk to Angus like that but she could feel a special connection between the two. Suddenly a loud growling sound, coming from the Nightfury.

"He still hungry" Merida thought allowed. She then saw Hiccup rubbing his face in frustration. A thought came to her; she just hoped Hiccup didn't mind her idea. "Well if your still hungry. I know where there is a well stocked burn at this time of year, so you should be able to feed to your heart's content", she told the dragon as she and her horse joined them. This had caught Toothless interest and purred happily.

[terry-perry]

Adam’s Family

Once again, this goes out to @ladyfluff! It was so great being a part of something of yours, and I hope this isn’t the last time we do a collaboration!

Previous chapters by the aforementioned author right here:

Adam’s Family.

Adam’s Family

After one of the cameramen knocks on the door, it’s opened not long after by a barely awake Y/N. She gives the crew a drowsy smile and waves.

“Hey guys! I almost forgot you were coming. I’m normally not up until past midnight.”

She lets out a yawn as she rubbed one of her eyes with a finger before motioning them all to come in.

“Welcome to New York! The city that’s always up, even when I’m not.”

Everyone is now downstairs in a shop, with the camera zooming in on different pieces of Y/N’s collection.

“This is my little shop where I keep a few things that I’ve gathered throughout the years. As you can see, most of them are pieces of furniture, artwork, and just stuff I thought was quite lovely.”

She pauses to take off a rather old looking music box from a nearby shelf and give it a good polishing with a rag. Once she does, she opens it and smiles fondly at the little dancer inside twirling to a soft melody.

“This little beauty is from the 19th century, as are most of the things you find in here. Back up in my apartment are the things I absolutely refuse to sell due to the sentimental value they possess. Songbooks from old composers I used to pal around with, unfinished statues from artists I admired, and some stuff my brothers have given me of course!”

Someone from behind the camera asks her a question that she tilts her head at.

“I technically haven’t gotten into any form of business with either of them. We all do collect things, yes, but it’s just a habit you pick up when you’ve lived as long as us, I suppose. And lived enough lives.”

She lets out a sudden giggle, thinking of something.

“In fact, there’s this lava lamp Adam gave me that was given to him by -“

The standard chiming of the bell that rings from someone entering stops her anecdote. She looks over and lights up from seeing who came in.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were on your way already!”

She runs over to wrap her arms around her boyfriend Ian and kiss him fully on the mouth. He responds with an equal amount of enthusiasm by lifting her off her feet and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I told you I was able to get an earlier flight! Didn’t you get my text?”

“Funny story about that…”

——

Back upstairs in Y/N’s apartment, there’s clutter that could rival her brother Adam’s. The camera records the different marbled faces and eerie painted scenery, along with a couple of bookshelves she had that contained early editions of classic novels. Some show visible signs of their age due to the slight tears on the spines, and the titles being somewhat faded. Other than that, the books seemed to be rather intact for the most part. The crew now have their focus on the couple snuggled up on the couch.

“We’ve been dating for a good while now. We met through Adam technically. I was there visiting him when I met Ian.”

“I don’t know what you could’ve seen in me at the time. I was a stuttering idiot when I first saw you.”

“I thought it was cute! You were so shy and sweet! It took him weeks before he could properly ask me out.”

“I remember practicing in my mirror so I wouldn’t screw it up,”

They’re asked about what keeps their relationship intact despite the list of complications they have.

“It was a bit tricky at first to maintain it since it’s not very common for my kind to have an actual relationship with a zom- human. Force of habit. It’s one of the main reasons my family wasn’t exactly too thrilled about us.”

She is asked to elaborate.

“Well it isn’t unheard of for people like Ian and me to be together. But normally it’s only for a short while, because the human is eventually turned. It’s not like that with us, though.”

“We’ve talked about it once we got more serious, and I learned more about her and the others. There can be some risks, with most of them involving either one of us getting killed during the process. So I’ve decided to just enjoy spending this life I have with her now. And then hope I get the chance to meet her in the next one she lives in.”

Y/N shields her face in Ian’s chest to cover up the grin she had, and the tears. He gave her a goodhearted chuckle and held her close.

“So far we’ve been able to make some adjustments for each other. We visit each other every chance we get. And I’ve been able to get these cool blackout curtains that I’ve made sure are pinned down to the wall and clamped shut. And she actually tried to start cooking because of me. Which may, or may not, have started a couple fires…”

Ian laughs when she punches his shoulder.

“I’ve gotten better!”

——

Scene changes to a club of some kind where Ian is sat onstage melodically plucking at a guitar while looking over to Y/N at the mike.

“It’s very clear, our love is here to stay...

Not for a year but ever and a day…”

We go back to the apartment where Y/N is now alone on the couch. Ian had left for the airport not too long ago. She appears to have been crying.

“As you know, I grew up during a time when women didn’t get a lot of good options for their future. For me, the future could’ve been to be married off to some farmer almost twice my age. To be his submissive wife that was only meant to serve him, and give him children that he could also ignore. If it weren’t for Adam meeting Eve - and giving me the chance to have a new life - I probably would’ve fooled myself into being content with the expectations made for me.”

She looks over at a framed photo on one of the bookshelves. Zooming in, the camera sees that it’s one with Y/N in a dark Victorian styled gown standing between her two suited up brothers while Peter’s husband Rowan stood on the far right end by Peter and Eve stood at the far left with Adam. The crew are informed that it was taken during Adam and Eve’s third wedding.

“I’ve always been grateful to have Adam and Peter as my brothers. Everyone else did their own thing and were compliant with whatever it was our parents wanted them to do. The three of us were the ones that stood out as the black sheep. Peter was the one that was always openly supportive of everything I did. I think that was mainly due to the fact that he hid who he truly was for such a long time. He’d let me go hunting with him, and taught me how to ride a horse. And he was also the one that I loved to cause mischief with, especially when it came to annoying Adam. His angry face is just as hilarious as it was 500 years ago!”

She lets out another little laugh as she reminisces.

“But he was always a good sport about it in the end. Adam and I had a larger age difference between us, so you can say he was both like my brother and father. Which he pretty much was. He was the one I went to whenever I had a bad dream. He’d let me crawl into bed with him, and he’d read to me until I fell asleep. Even though they both have shown some reluctance in accepting my relationship with Ian - with Adam especially taking some time to be open about it - they’ve welcomed him into the family once he spent more time with us, and they saw how happy he makes me.”

“The radio and the telephone and the movies that we know

May just be passing fancies and in time may go…”

Ian sits in a cab and looks out at the familiar desolate streets of Detroit while being lost in thought.

“There was this night she slept over at my place - before I knew what she was - and some sunlight peeked in from the curtains. She screamed because of the burns she got on the side of her face. I was just worried about what the hell I could do to help her, I didn’t even hear her say ‘I’m sorry,’ over and over the way she did. She thought it was her fault…”

“But oh my dear...

Our love is here to stay…

Together we’re going a long, long way…”

“I had always looked at my brothers’ relationships with their partners, and I had often wondered what it would be like to have someone. To actually be in love.”

“Y/N is hardly like anyone I’ve met. She’s so cultured, sweet, loving, and fun. And I’m so used to being told to settle down when I babble on about whatever. Or I don’t even get paid much attention to. But with her, I feel like I can tell her anything.”

“Ian’s been so open minded about everything, so selfless. And he is so passionate about music, not to mention more talented than he gives himself credit for.”

“I won’t lie, I’m a little disappointed that I won’t get to share certain things with her. Like going to the beach, showing her off to my family, sharing a milkshake at Eileen’s, having babies with her…”

He seems to do a little more thinking; most likely imagining the last scenario.

“But none of that would be stuff I want if I couldn’t have her,”

“In time the Rockies may crumble

Gibraltar may tumble

They're only made of clay

But our love is here to stay.”

Ian strummed the last few notes of the song and shared another look with Y/N while the audience applauded. It wasn’t their approval he sought out to have.

[destinyquest]

Trouble at the Farm: Part 2

Afternoon, The Farm Three Guardians emerge from the forest and enter the perimeter of The Farm. Ever since operations were established at the Tower, few Guardians visit The Farm. Those who did, found it to be a quiet respite from the constant battle for life and death on other planets. Today, there was a slightly unusual sight: multiple combat frames patrolling the perimeter, and a human wielding a sniper rifle atop the barn. She notices the approaching Guardians, and waves. A falcon lands on her shoulder.

In the middle of the Farm, near the fountain, the locals have established a makeshift market. Civilian humans and awoken are milling about, exchanging their goods and services, and making small talk. Children are playing soccer in the field nearby.

Donnie was overjoyed to see familiar territory, even though it is being guarded by robots. Her joy is quickly turned to awe as she notices something enormous embedded into a distant mountain, spewing turbulent black clouds into the sky.

“What is THAT?”

“That would be a shard of the Traveler. Remember how I said the Traveler saved us? Well, that was part of it’s sacrifice.” explains an exasperated Alexa. Donnie’s Ghost had been trying to catch up her Guardian on everything she’d missed, which was proving difficult.

“We should go talk to Suraya”, said Zulgren. The Warlock points at the woman standing on a scaffolding upon the barn. “She needs us.”

As they climb the stairs towards Suraya’s post, Donnie is relieved to see some familiarity: stables with livestock, farm tools and equipment, humans. She could not understand, however, why the humans did not look at her with familiarity. Most seemed to show faces of awe and fear.

Suraya turns to greet the three, “Hello there! I’m assuming Zavala sent you?”

Nil and Zulgren nod, Donnie asks “Zavala?”

“Oh yeah, she’s... uh... new”, chuckles Nil.

“Hi! I’m Donnie, nice to meet you!”

Suraya is pleasantly surprised by Donnie’s effervescent personality.

“Well hello, its nice to meet you. Name’s Suraya. Suraya Hawthorne. Normally I think we’d make sure you go to the Tower but-”

“I’m sorry, can... uh... I have a question.”

“Yes, Donnie?”

“Do you have any farm animals? I would love to see some sheep, or some goats, or anything like that?”

“Well... um.” Suraya squints her eyes, “I suppose...”

She takes a lengthy, uncertain pause before asking, “Why exactly do you want to see farm animals?”

“Well, I used to be a farmer, and that’s about the only thing that could make me feel more normal in this strange world I’m in now.”

Suraya sighs in relief, “Ok. Yeah, that’s fine. We got some horses and chickens in the barn over there. I wasn’t sure what you needed the farm animals for, sometimes some Guardians can be a little... weird.”

She eyes Zulgren, who has now taken out a small bone from his pocket. He is holding it up to his ear, listening intently. He then whispers into the bone, and puts it back into his pocket.

“Anyways... before you go say hi to the farm animals, I kinda have a life and death situation here...”

Donnie covers her mouth in embarrassment, “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”

“No no no, its ok- I supposed I should’ve just led with that,” chuckles Suraya. “The reason why I asked Zavala to dispatch some Guardians here is because we’ve had some increased Fallen presence at the Farm for the past 2 weeks. Like... violent, aggressive, Fallen presence. It is really unexpected and I’m honestly really worried. They’ve left The Farm alone ever since operations were relocated to the Tower. Why would they attack here? It’s just civilians, peaceful civilians just trying to live their lives!”

“Oh yeah, we took care of some Fallen on our way here!” chirps Nil.

“You did? Well, that’s good and bad news. Good that you took care of them, not so good that they’re still on our doorstep. They already destroyed a civilians home on the outskirts. They lost everything- I... I should’ve been here. At least they escaped with their lives, they’re living here now, at the farm.”

“Indeed”, says Zulgren, “we were also unable to recognize the House these Fallen are from.”

Dinklebot, Zulgrens Ghost, emerges from behind him. It begins to project an image of a symbol painted onto the clothing of a dead Vandal. The symbol shows a crescent, with abstract clouds emerging from it.

“I captured this image of their house symbol on a Vandal we dispatched near here.”

“Fascinating. That’s definitely not House of Dusk, or any other House I recognize,” muses Suraya.

The group all stare at the mysterious symbol for a moment, before Suraya interrupts the silence.

“Perhaps Tyra can help. She’s down by the market,” Suraya gestures towards a platform near the market where an elderly Awoken woman is working at a cryptarchs’ station. “I’m open to suggestion on what else can be done here. For now I’m gonna head back to my patrols. I won’t be far in case any of you need me.”

Nil is distracted polishing his hand cannon, while Zulgren is back to whispering at the mysterious bone.

“Well it was nice meeting you!” says Donnie enthusiastically.

“And it was nice meeting YOU! I look forward to seeing you again Donnie.” Suraya smiles and walks off. As she does so, she mutters to her falcon Louis, “I don’t know about those two vanguards, but I like the new one. What do you think? ... Yeah, me too.”

Donnie, Nil and Zulgren walk towards Tyra’s podium, glancing at the market as they pass through. The cryptarch is lost in concentration analyzing an engram. She is momentarily surprised to see three Guardians approaching her. She had gotten used to most Guardians visiting Rahool at the tower, but welcomed the change.

“Greetings Guardians, engrams to decrypt?” asks Tyra.

“Actually, we are here because of the Fallen.” Zulgren informs her of their mission.

“Yes, this makes sense. Hmm. The mystery house, and the sudden attacks. It is a conundrum.”

Alexa peeks out from behind Donnie and offers, “The Fallen were the last race that the Traveler visited, do you think they’re here for the shard?”

“It is possible, indeed. There was a Hunter with that theory... what was his name... Leon! Yes, he was a sharp one. Went to go investigate a nearby Lost Sector, I believe it was called the Whispering Falls?”

“Do you know where this is?” inquires Zulgren

“Hm? Oh, yes. Let me see...” Tyra begins to rummage through the mess of her table and procures a small data bank. “Here, for your ghost.”

Dinklebot scans the data bank. “It is a 2 day journey.” he says, monotonously.

“Ooh! Maybe we can take the horses!” chirps Donnie.

"Do be careful, and see if dear Leon is ok. I haven’t heard from him since he left.”

The three Guardians begin to head towards the stables, but along the way Donnie and Nil are distracted by the market. Donnie finds an armorsmith selling a stylish spinweave armor piece, and approaches the vendor. Billy the armorsmith had never really interacted with Guardians before, and wasn’t sure what to make of the one approaching him now.

“Hi! I really like that armor you’ve got there, what is it?”

“Hey... um, its spinweave. Really high quality.” says Billy, through a forced smile. “Sorry, I just, we don’t have Guardians here that often.”

“Oh, well I’m Donnie! It’s nice to meet you, what’s your name?”

“Billy.” he says, lowering his guard. “You’re a lot nicer than I was expecting. I just don’t really know what to make of people who, you know, come back from the dead.”

“Trust me, neither do I” chuckles Donnie. “I would love to buy this armor, how much of the blue glittery stuff is it?”

“450 Glimmer. This is the only Guardian armor I have in stock, and it’s as high quality as it comes.”

Donnie checks with Alexa on how much Glimmer she has before turning back to bargain a little.

“So, any chance I could trade you my armor for the spinweave?” and, forgetting that she had taken a beating from a Vandal, says, “Its in perfect condition!”

Billy looks at the unsightly laser-riddled and scarred leather armor Donnie is wearing, and decides that she could use better armor more than he needs the extra Glimmer. Besides, she was the kindest, and only, Guardian he’d ever met! He gives her an amicable discount.

Nil finds himself at a weaponsmith’s stand, inspecting the various wares. The weaponsmith steps out from behind the tent to greet the Guardian. “Hello there!” they gesture towards his impressive collection. “If you have any questions about my hand-crafted weaponry, just let me know.”

Nil raises a mechanical eyebrow. “I happen to know a thing or two about gunsmithery myself, I’m Nil. Nillion-7”

The weaponsmith smirks, and decides to play along. “Oh, is that so? Friend of Banshee?”

“Friend? More like BEST friend. Banshee and I go way back.”

The merchant sees straight through Nil’s blatant lie. “Right, well. You see, I happen to know Banshee-44 quite well... and I don’t remember him ever mentioning a Nil.”

Nil realizes his error and meekly offers a correction, “I mean, Banshee doesn’t know that we’re going to be best friends. I see him as a best friend.”

The weaponsmith nods and chuckles. “Whatever you say Guardian. If you chose to buy anything, let me know.”

Nil mutters to himself as he walks off towards the stables. There he finds Donnie wearing a fresh set of spinweave armor. Zulgren is inspecting the horses, stroking his chin very slowly.

“Oh hey Nil! Do you know anything about weaponsmithing?” Donnie asks the Exo.

Nil cheers up, hearing that his skills are needed. ”Well, yeah! What’s up?”

“This pitchfork kinda... sucks. No offense Alexa, but I can’t hit for shit with this thing. Got any ideas on how you could improve it?”

“Hm... I could give it a nice plasteel handle and reinforce the blades on the end there. Gonna cost some Glimmer.”

“Done! Here.” Alexa transfers some Glimmer to Nil’s ghost, who then immediately starts working on improving the pitchfork. Nil and his ghost make quick work of it, considering he is accustomed to tinkering with machinery far more complex than farm tools. By the time he is done, the pitchfork has a plasteel-lined extended grip making it easier for two-handed wielding, and the metal points have been sharpened and reinforced with plasteel as well.

Donnie thanks Nil for his help and they return to Zulgren. The warlock is cautiously approaching one of the horses at the stable.

“Uh... hey Zulgren. Shouldn’t we ask if we can borrow this before we-”

Before Donnie is able to finish her sentence, Zulgren leaps onto the horse’s back. The horse immediately starts to buck and Donnie rushes to calm it down. Through their combined efforts, they are able to ease the creature’s shock from being so suddenly mounted.

“Ok. Maybe lets not steal horses from these nice people? I’m going to find Suraya. Nil, want to come? Nil?”

Donnie looks around, and Nil is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly a robotic face emerges from a haystack in the corner of the stable.

“Oh. Hey. Are we not stealing horses?” asks Nil, still in the haystack.

“Did you just... hide?” responds Donnie.

“Uh, I just thought we were about to steal horses and I figured I should be stealthy.”

Donnie rolls her eyes and walks out of the stables. She immediately spots Suraya walking the perimeter of the Farm, sniper rifle at the ready. Donnie waves at her, and Suraya waves back as she starts walking towards her.

“Hey there, was Tyra able to help you guys figure out more about the Fallen?”

“Yeah! We’re actually about to go on a quick mission into the woods, and I was wondering if we could borrow three of the horses in that stable?”

Suraya purses her lips and frowns. “Ah, yeah. I’m sorry you don’t have Sparrows but I can’t let you borrow the horses. They’re the only horses we have at The Farm and the EDZ can be dangerous. It’s not that I don’t trust you, and I definitely know they’d be for a good cause-”

Donnie cuts her off, “Don’t even worry about it. I totally get it. We’ll be on our way!”

Suraya smiles, “I really like you, thanks for being so understanding!” She nods, and returns to her patrols as Donnie jogs back to the stables.

“Sorry guys but looks like we can’t take the horses,” says Donnie as she enters the stable, “Suraya doesn’t want to risk anything happening to them and- ... WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HORSES?”

Three of the horses are glowing unnaturally.

Zulgren was looking proudly at Donnie, but his expression soured quickly. “Well. I had enhanced them with void energy, but I suppose we will leave them.”

Donnie rushes up to one of them, “Is- are they OK?”

“They are enhanced,” says Zulgren, in the same tone he might use to explain that horses are animals.

Donnie inspects them, and aside from the fact that they are glowing, they seem calm and in good health. Cautiously satisfied, Donnie begins to leave the stables with her two companions.

As they leave the perimeter of The Farm, they pass by Suraya making her rounds. She waves at the fireteam, “Good luck!”

Donnie smiles nervously, “Thanks! Um... You may want to check on the horses-”

“What?! What did you do?”

“They’re alive! Don’t worry!”

“ALIVE?”

Suraya runs off back in the direction of the stables while Donnie, Nil, and Zulgren sheepishly run into the forests of the EDZ. Dinklebot begins to chart their expedition through the woods as the intrepid team watch cautiously for ambush and surprises. The distant never-ending battle between the Light and the Darkness is a murmur deep in the woods, and the turbulent roar of the clouds billowing from the Shard of the Traveler is but a tremble beneath their feet.

[projectnero]

THE WATCHER’S TALES: PYGMALION

A timeless observer’s analysis.

Throughout time, humans have been strangely fascinated with the concept of life born through that which is inherently lifeless. These questions on where life came from have been the basis for debates throughout almost all of humanity’s life. Divine beings were created solely as the Guardians of the strange planet, to act as the shepherd for the confused and dazed sheep known as mankind. Scientific theories were introduced. Religions were founded.

And, most interestingly, wondrous stories were created.

I am as old as the stars in the sky, and yet I have never seen something so wondrous as the creativity of the human spirit. I find myself shifting into ancient libraries, staying for years on end, then journeying through time to read more. Perhaps one of the most interesting tales I have gotten my hands on is Pygmalion; the concept is simple, but the mere basis speaks volumes about the breadth of humans. A simple sculptor named Pygmalion creates the most wondrous statue, who then comes to life, adopting the name Galatea. He falls in love with her instantly. Many stories have been adapted to follow this theme; After Mr. Shaw converted the myth into a play, it was then adapted into a movie called “My Fair Lady”. The character of Pygmalion was the basis for a Batman villain many years later. Perhaps it spoke to humans on some other level?

That is not important. What is important is how my favorite group of inhumans dealt with this concept.

I have been observing the members of Project:Nero for some time, and the things I see are wondrous, perhaps even more wondrous than humans.

It was a normal day for the task force, for some measure of normal. The usually stoic and cold Swampy, the undead zombie, was even more stoic today. Unlike popular depictions of zombies, Swampy fully remembered all of his past life. He was born Daeshim Clarence Song-Kim, the son of a Korean immigrant who served as the American Expedition Corps’s cartographer, and a Choctaw woman in what is now modern-day Baton Rouge. They lived a quiet life near the Bayou and mostly lived as farmers and fishermen. When his parents fell ill, Clarence traveled to the city in an attempt to find help, but instead he was quickly beaten and mugged by the local criminal element and left for dead. 

The young boy had managed to crawl all the way back to his home, 40 miles away, only to find his parents long dead. Wracked with grief, he had thrown himself into the swamp to rest for eternity. He woke up around 50 years later, which brings us to present day, where Clarence is currently emotionally dead and serves as the team’s expert marksman.

They had been briefed on their mission. A psychiatric hospital (I believe they were still referred to as asylums or bedlam homes in those days) had been overrun by an apparently supernatural contingency that was highly dangerous; as such, only the undead members of the team were to be sent in. Theodore the Ghoul and Clarence the zombie, with the vampire, Isaac, on standby to get them out at a moment’s notice.

The job ended up being fairly simple. Most of the assailants were already dead, as were all the doctors. There were few human survivors, and yet something felt off to Clarence. Telling Theodore to go on ahead, Clarence had ducked into the nearest room, brandishing a Winchester rifle at the seemingly lifeless body in the corner. He would not be fooled. He could smell the blood on them, but he could also hear their breathing, soft and almost unrecognizable. 

A braver man than I, Clarence approached them without fear. The barrel of his rifle was pressed up against their skull. A dainty, shaking hand moved up to hold the barrel in place as the lifeless body finally started to move, looking up to face the zombie.

Remember my mentions of Pygmalion earlier, and how nonsensical it seemed? It’s actually quite relevant. 

The porcelain skin of the woman was the same color as her hair and eyes, and in that moment, Clarence was reminded of someone from his past long ago.

The flash of recognition in his mind was enough to make him lower his gun. The woman did not try to attack him, and so he simply helped her up. She was dressed in a hospital gown, and later searching of the building revealed the details of something called “Project Pygmalion”, involving extensive surgery and modification of patients, turning them into dolls for the purpose of human trafficking.

Needless to say, the building was burnt to the ground. The woman, who later identified herself as Darlene, insisted on staying with Clarence. I say insisted, but she turned out to be mute; the only way you could tell her feelings was the way she held onto Clarence.

The woman had an effect on him. He found himself speaking more as he tried to help her adjust to life in the Task Force, as one of them. The duo attended therapy together, even though Clarence had never once even entertained the idea of listening to the druid. Simon, for his part, did not complain about this development, because having Clarence attend with another person was better than having him not attend at all.

I truly cannot wait to see how this interesting relationship will play out.

[lokilickedme]

Okay so I promised a bunch of pics from ScotFest 2018, and I’ve been stuck posting from my phone for the last two days so - sorry for the delay, but here we go with the good stuff.  It’s long, but stay with me, you’re gonna enjoy this mad trip.

First, let me say this.

FUUUUUCCCCCCCKK.  I knew I was gonna be having McClary flashbacks the whole time but it started out ridiculous and just got worse as the day went on.

The moment we pulled up the first thing that stepped into view was a dude in an anarchy tee shirt with a kilt and Docs and long black hair strutting down the sidewalk.  If Chem!Tom was Scottish...oh wait a sec, didn’t he say at some point that he was a bit, on his mother’s side?  Works for me.  So anyway, we arrive at ScotFest and walk the long way to the shuttle bus pick-up with a bunch of kilted guys and an elderly couple dressed in ancient clan clothing (they looked awesome).  And before we even get off the bus at the festival grounds, we’re blasted with bagpipe music as a full regalia marching pipe band parades past the entrance.  Something smells REALLY.GOOD. and off to the left of the entrance is a field where two Mol-pups are chasing sheep around while their shepherd whistles commands loud enough to split your head open.  Yep, McClary flashbacks, right off the bat.  And big Scottish athletes are throwing things that don’t look like they were meant to be thrown, though the biggest and most impressive athletes on the field are the females who are using pitchforks to hurl big bags of sand backwards over their shoulders over a bar that’s about 20 feet above their heads.  Big is looking at me like “What the hell, mom??” so I tell him the ancient Scots were farmers and they made games and competitions out of their farm chores.  He’s like “No, I mean why are you breathing so hard?”

No comment.  Did I mention that the females were really impressive?  Good start to the day.

So we move on past the games into the main festival area and everywhere are man-knees.  I’ve never really paid much attention to man-knees before, but to be honest they’re kinda...hot.  I don’t even know why.  And there were so many of them...hundreds and hundreds of man-knees on open display, it’s almost like I shouldn’t be looking but they’re RIGHT THERE all over the damn place and I feel like a pervert scamming peeks.  And calves.  Man calves.  Not normally a fan, but there were some good ones on display.

The first thing we did was hit the tribal music tent and it was over for me before it even got good and started...because on the stage inside the tribal music tent was THIS Scottish god:

Don’t worry, the picture quality will get better.  So we settle in to enjoy the music and this guy is eating up the stage and spanking the shit out of that drum, and then he starts blowing on a flippin’ didgeridoo (yeah, a nine foot long Australian horn, don’t ask me why but omg that man’s lung power was making the ground rumble under our feet and all I could think was how that skill might carry over, if you know what I mean).

Suddenly I’m really interested in nine foot horns.

A really cool thing about hitting the afternoon shows was the fact that you could go right up to the side of the stage and nobody cared.  So I did.

Physically painful, let me tell ya.  I could just almost look up his skirt.

That horn is vibrating the ground where I’m standing and I’m actually relieved when he switches back to the drum because all that vibration has shifted my panties about two inches to the left and it’s getting uncomfortable.  The drum isn’t much better though, and neither is the view from where I’m standing - he’s a big stout bull and I’m three feet away from him while he beats that drum to a whimpering death.  I could reach out and tickle his bare knee if I felt like getting divorced.

So I go back and sit with my guys again and he starts doing this:

KNEES.  I mentioned man-knees before, didn’t I?  Well here, have a pair.  I’ll post a video later of what he did to this poor little drum, and to his own thick neck - because I can’t even describe it, and you know words are my thing.  He played his freaking adam’s apple or something, I don’t even know.

There were actually two other musicians on the stage with him, but I sort of forgot they were there.

There were also lots of adorable father/son kilted combos present - and yep, a bagpiper rounds out the onstage trio.  But again...man knees.  The ones on the left specifically.

So the show ends after a lot of insane drumming, war cries, didgeridoo blowing, bagpiping, and a really nasty little ditty about a girl who’s been touched so much she’s smooth as a stairway bannister (followed by an anthem to an unhealthy relationship that proclaimed “I’d rather be drunk a thousand years than be sober one minute with you”).  Nice, guys.

As soon as their set is over we leave the tent to go wander around, but most everyone else stays because it is as hot as the freaking surface of the sun on this day and the tent is like an oasis on Mars - which means when the band comes out to let the next band hit the stage, we’re pretty much alone outside with the bull and his two stagemates (sorry backup drummer and bagpiper, you guys were awesome and I loved you but didgeridoo guy vibrated my panties two inches to the left, you know how it is).

Anyway, we’re outside at the merch tent and Husband is buying something and I look up and nearly slam bodily into this:

Drummer/didgeridoo guy.  I vaguely recall yelling to Husband during the deafening noise of the show that he looked like Aquaman, and when I end up face to face with him it’s confirmed.  I think it’s the cranky eyebrow.

I also get to ogle the piper’s bagpipes up close and personal, which was hard to do as didgeridoo guy - whose name is CJ - is standing right behind me while I ooh and ahh over this weird thing, and he’s laughing at me for reasons unknown:

Maybe it was the stupid comment I made about squeezing the bag?

And then the three of them pose for a pic:

Goobers.  At this point Little walks up to them and they all sort of huddle around him and start laughing (Little has light-blindness and has to wear special shades outside so he was half blind and I think he rammed right into the guy with the hat), so I hand my phone to Husband and go to get him.  When I get close, didgeridoo guy puts an arm the size of a tree trunk around me and hugs me up next to him while the other two are tickling Little.  Husband starts snapping pics with my phone, but no, I’m not sharing them because 1) my face, 2) Little’s face, 3) shellshock at being touched by this stud ox without having initiated it myself, and 4) the look on my face clearly says MY PANTIES ARE CROOKED AND HIS SWEAT IS SOAKING THROUGH MY SHIRT AND PHEROMONES PEOPLE OMG PHEROMONES I’M IN PAIN HELP I MAY BE PREGNANT

Yeah, he was drenched in sweat from jumping all over that damn stage schlepping a drum that probably weighed more than me.  My hand was on his back and it came away soaked.  You can consider that a euphemism if you want, it works both ways.

Also - red boots.  Urgh.  And then he goes like this:

Boy was solid as a whiskey barrel, let me tell you.  We came back later to listen to another band and he was out there again, and the girls from the face painting tent had lured him over and braided his hair.  He looked flippin cute.  And by cute I mean Jesus Wept.

So before this turns into an exclusive didgeridoo guy fest (too late, yeah I know) let’s move along to this fine specimen that I found at the blacksmith tent:

Ladies and gentlemen, meet King McClary’s work kilt.

Dude was nice from the front too:

Definitely an Auchinleck, for those of you familiar with The McClary Chronicles.  Check out the tattoo.  And he was making maille battle armor, which I got to touch.  It didn’t shift my panties quite as hard as the drums did, but there was definitely a quiver.

This guy was at the tent next door to the armor tent, making I dunno, bong pipes or something and he was hilarious:

And then there was this guy, listening to ballads in the historical folk music tent and looking all angsty and authentic, like his love just died of a fever and his crop failed so he joined a ships’ crew to find his fortune in a faraway land but the damn boat sank fifteen feet from shore and now he’s just fucking stuck in Scotland and contemplating becoming a villain:

And he was glaring at my child, I don’t know why.  Prissy prick.  I was hoping to see his dick but he was so anal he tucked his kilt under his ass from the front.  Definitely a villain.

After a couple of teary ballads about wailing winds and failed crops or whatever, I dunno, I wasn’t listening because I was too involved in trying to see Prissy Prick’s ballsack, we wander over to the Highland Dance competition and walk in on this:

We’re in there for all of about twelve seconds before Big starts giggling, then Little starts giggling, then I start giggling.  We promptly leave the Highland Dance competition tent, because these girls really worked hard and I don’t want to get arrested for being a dick.

We go watch the Mol-pups chase the sheep around, because nobody cares if you disrupt the proceedings in the middle of a field full of sheep.

And then we watch some more of the Highland Games, in which guys threw stuff while making the best faces I’ve seen since that time Husband wanted to try setting the mirror next to the bed:

Yeah, we giggled.

After that we went back to listen to some more music, because damn.  Scottish rock is da bomb.  Heard a punk band that Husband immediately fell in love with, so I guess we’re evensies on the lusting after Scottish musicians thing now:

Dude on the bagpipes grinned like that through the whole set, I think he was puffing something out of one of those tubes.

And then we walked out into the big freaking middle of about four billion of these:

Noisy effers.  And they don’t stop for anybody - we literally had to jump out of the way because when they paused in front of us, they went into this formation thing and backed up right into where we were standing.  Had to grab Little and yank him up off the ground before he was trampled by some dude wearing a dress and giving an octopus a blow job.

Turned to look at a woman sitting next to us a little later and watched her pull a dagger out of her sock and shine it on her kilt like she was getting ready to go assassinate someone in the crowd.  We left soon after, so I didn’t get to see it go down.  I hope it wasn’t the didgeridoo player, he was cute AF.

All in all it was an 11/12 day, marred only by the outrageous heat and the fact that I’ve been off my supplements and medications for a week in prep for surgery on Tuesday, so I was exhausted and my blood’s gone back to being water again.  We didn’t stay as long as we would have otherwise, but we had fun and experienced a lot of weirdness - I ate haggis on accident, Husband sat down with a plate and I thought it was meatloaf (it was good and I didn’t die, so bonus) - and I got to spend the day surrounded by all the clans that tried to assassinate Thomas The Fucking Marauder.

We’ll be going again next year.  Husband is a descendant of one of the border clans, so he’s heavy into this...and of course you all know what my connection is to it :)

Let me leave you with a picture of a guy about to bullrush a scarecrow.  I don’t know why, I didn’t ask.  Scotland’s weird, ya’ll.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Haven (35/50)

Summary: They say Resembool is a haven, and they’re right. Lush pastures, quaint country town, farmers’ markets on Saturdays: a bucolic paradise.

But it’s more than that. Resembool is a haven for the runaways, the deserters, the people who don’t want to be found…

The Resembool community knows there’s something odd about Hohenheim, but they’re not going to let that stop them helping him out. This is Resembool after all, a place where no one has to hide and neighbours help neighbours, be they building a fence, chasing a sheep, or trying to save the country from an evil they inadvertently helped release centuries ago…

Or: A series of slices of life in an AU in which Hohenheim never leaves, and several broken state alchemists find hope and home in Resembool.

Rated: T

==

Haven

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [AO3]

Summary: Fahim joins forces with Alchemists Anonymous. 

Characters: Fahim (Scar’s brother), Imrul (Scar), Hohenheim

==

“You’re mad.”

“No, I’m not.” 

It’s an argument that they’ve been having ever since Fahim announced his intention to go and introduce himself to the strange club of alchemists that are attempting to save the world as they know it. The story of what’s going on in Amestris  is not exactly a secret around Resembool, nor is the group of alchemists and their efforts to counter it. 

For Fahim, who has known that there is something not quite right about Amestrian alchemy ever since he started studying it, this seems like the ideal opportunity to be able to put his theory and notes into solid action, and potentially provide the missing piece of the puzzle that the Amestrian alchemists, without the additional knowledge of alkahestry, may not have picked up on yet. 

Imrul, naturally, thinks he’s bonkers for trying this. 

“They tried to kill us,” he points out for the fifth time as Fahim is getting ready to leave. “They tried to kill our entire people.”

“I know,” Fahim says levelly. “I’m not saying that I forgive them for that. You know that I never will. But right now, the thing that we face is something far bigger than any of us, something far bigger than the entirety of Ishval, the entirety of Amestris. If we don’t do something about it, then we’re all going to end up dead anyway, and I’m not risking any more lives when I can help to save them.”

Imrul sighs. “You’re too idealistic for your own good.”

“No. I’m just pragmatic about the whole thing. Being stubborn and holding a grudge aren’t going to get us anywhere. We can still hate them for what they did in Ishval but that doesn’t preclude us from joining forces with them for the greater good against a common enemy that won’t spare us either.”

Fahim can see that Imrul still does not entirely agree, but he doesn’t say anything else, letting him leave the house and make his way towards the Elric home where the alchemists meet. 

It’s a complicated situation, more complicated than a simple us and them. For a start, this entire organisation of alchemists centres on Hohenheim, who was never in Ishval and who is the survivor of a ruined homeland like they are. That he was unwittingly involved in its ruin makes him even more determined to prevent it happening again. And whilst the others committed atrocities in Ishval and have made no attempt to try and downplay that or hide it under the rug, they do at least admit that they committed those atrocities, that they were atrocities no matter which way they’re looked at, and in the end, they chose to reject the authority that was telling them to commit the atrocities. 

Fahim does not see it in quite as black and white terms as Imrul does, and he’s perfectly accepting of that. After all, Imrul’s material suffering at the hands of state alchemists is far, far greater. He will permanently be reminded of it in the metal right arm that he now wears. It’s only natural that Imrul harbours such a deep-seated resentment.

He has not gone after vengeance as Fahim thought he would, though. Early on in his recovery, just after they had left Ishval and found this safe haven, he had been muttering about killing all the state alchemists. Fahim had not said anything at the time. Imrul needed the anger, it was what kept him going through those first few days when everything was touch and go. Although Fahim had privately wondered what such a rampage would achieve, he didn’t voice that thought, and Imrul has not mentioned it for a while. Maybe finding the small Ishvalan community here in Resembool has given him hope that he had not had before. 

It has certainly given Fahim hope. 

Al answers the door when he knocks at the Elric house. 

“Hello Mr Fahim. What can we do for you?”

“Actually I was hoping I could do something for you. Is your father there?”

“Sure, come in. Dad!”

Al shows Fahim through to Hohenheim’s study, which is a scholar’s nightmare and paradise at the same time. There are so many books and maps in there, old documents from long-forgotten regions that are undoubtedly originals picked up over the course of his long life, and Fahim could easily lose himself in the rich knowledge for weeks. Unfortunately Hohenheim doesn’t appear to have any kind of shelving or filing system, with everything scattered pell mell and stuffed in wherever there’s room for it. 

“If you think this is bad, you should see the basement,” Al says in an exaggerated stage whisper.

Hohenheim either doesn’t hear the comment or chooses to ignore it, welcoming Fahim into his domain. His Ishvalan is oddly accented and archaic, obviously learned a couple of centuries ago, but it’s perfectly understandable, and Fahim explains the conclusions he’s come to regarding Amestris’s alchemy - and what can be done to counteract it. 

If all of Amestris is a giant alchemic transmutation circle, with the potential for the alchemy within it to be nullified, then an alkahestry array covering the same points would surely be able to neutralise it, not relying on tectonic energy.

Hohenheim agrees, and he’s very excited about the fact, as if Fahim has brought him the missing piece of a puzzle that he hadn’t entirely realised was missing a piece yet.

When the rest of the alchemists turn up later, they’re all just as happy about it. They spend what feels like hours talking about alkahestry and the hybrid cross of both forms that Fahim has invented and uses to amalgamate the best of both worlds. They’re all scholars at heart, all of them wanting to learn as much as they possibly can about this ancient art, all of them wanting to use it to make a difference in the world so that the mistakes of the past will not be repeated. They completely understand his enthusiasm for the craft. 

The hard resentment is still there. It will never go away. This tentative alliance cannot change what’s passed, and nor should it, but it’s a step in the right direction towards a better future, and it’s the future that Fahim cares about the most.

[the-revisionist]

the tristan chord, chapter 19

Note: Sorry this took so long! 

xix. What time is it in the Milky Way?

  her eyes are closer to me than my own honor ~ Anne Carson

“Are you going to put the tofu in the sauce?” Greg asks.

Wooden spoon poised above a pot of tomato sauce, Caroline hesitates. It is Wednesday evening. She is tired. The day—filled with interviews of teaching candidates, meetings, chatty texts from one lover in New York that she largely ignored and morose ones from the other one who was meeting in Halifax this morning with her solicitor about her impending divorce and Caroline sort-of ignored those too, a toddler who wanted and got, thank you very much, Christmas lights put up in the living room, in August—is fit to burst at the seams. Thus she gazes longingly over Greg’s shoulder at the glass of wine abandoned on the dining room table and is damned if she’s going to ruin her perfect Marcella Hazan tomato sauce—the simmering translucent half-onion poaching in a fragrant bloodbath—with crumbly bits of protein that resemble glue paste falling off ancient discarded wallpaper. 

Helpless, she prevaricates. “Um.” 

“No?” Greg pulls the Labradoodle Pout face. 

“Well, Gillian’s coming for dinner and she likes things that are, you know—” Caroline pauses while attempting to find the most innocuous yet accurate term to describe Gillian’s culinary sensibilities, which are as omnivorous as her sexuality: If she’s hungry and it’s not a lot of fuss she’ll have it, even if it gives her indigestion.  

But then you are an awful lot of fuss, Caroline reminds herself, and so goes yet another theory.

  Greg wastes no time in supplying a descriptor for the woman he takes for thick-headed rube, even though he is too well-bred—and afraid of Gillian—to say in polite company: “Simple?” 

“No,” she retorts defensively. “I’d say her tastes are more classic. Pure. She has a very, you know, refined palate.” 

  Skeptical, he nibbles at a corner of his beard. “Isn’t Gillian the one who ate a chicken kebab she dropped on the kitchen floor?”

“It wasn’t the floor, it was a kitchen chair, and the five-second rule was met.” As a rigorous scientist Caroline knows the five-second rule is absolute bollocks but as an unsparing bitch she will do anything to win an argument.  “And, y’know, Alan and mum will be here too, and they aren’t that keen on tofu either.” 

“Well it’s just sad, I think.” Greg folds his arms. “That they won’t try new things.”

“Have you ever slept with a man?”

“I fail to see why you keep asking me that question.” 

“Just making a point this time. Gillian might try the tofu chips. Especially if she has wine with dinner.” She pauses. “Like, an entire bottle of wine, but yeah, she might.” 

“She’ll probably just wrap them up in prosciutto like you do,” he replies morosely. 

“It’s a testament to the sturdiness and versatility of the chip.” She smiles brightly, considers this a good save. “Hey, I ate the amaranth porridge this morning.” All the more reason to reward herself with wine tonight. Greg’s penchant for randomly assigning certain foods to days—Tofu Tuesdays, Amaranth Wednesdays, Quinoa Fridays—has only affirmed Caroline’s commitment to a parallel schedule of inevitable alcoholism. 

Before walking away, he reverts to the Labradoodle Pout. His courtship of Blackburn Barbie, aka Brigitte, has not been going well and as a result he has been as mopey as Morrissey around the house.  In turn Caroline has ramped up efforts to be kind and supportive or, at the very least, less bitchy—for starters, eating amaranth porridge without complaint. In addition, she consented to doing yoga with him on occasion; her motivation here is purely selfish, because she realizes that keeping up sexually with the likes of Gillian Greenwood may require a level of flexibility suitable to a preteen gymnast, or at least as close to that state as her sad-sack, wine-fueled, middle-aged body can attain. The other day during their marathon post-flood shag session she got such horrid back spasms at one point that Gillian leaped out of bed and started getting dressed because she assumed a trip to A&E was imminent. But a back massage, a glass of wine, and a story about a runaway lamb safely recovered during the storm fixed her up just fine. 

Or maybe it was the timbre of Gillian’s voice as she relayed the tale of the lamb, floating ethereal as smoke above her as she lay face down on the bed, muscles melting under a vigorous work-over: Poor damned thing, she were afraid of the rushing water, y’see, so I had to cross over to the other side, grab her, and carry her—imagine me, wading through a stream, water up to my knees with a lamb across my shoulders, bloody lucky she’s so tiny and I know that creek bed like the back of my hand. When the spasms and pain finally subsided she rolled over, practically into Gillian’s arms, and stared up into those eyes which, at that moment, were the softened green-gray of the hills on a cold rainy day. 

Gillian then smiled and said, better?  

In response Caroline squeaked that she would really really really pretty please like to try that position again. 

Nah, Gillian said. Can’t send you back to Harrogate all busted up. Besides, I’m rather enjoying you naked, helpless, and on your back—and in the 37 minutes that followed, she made absolutely certain that Caroline enjoyed it too. 

But yoga is worth a try, lest she earn a reputation as a pillow queen—and that particular phrase riles up thoughts of Sacha, who is still in New York and whose initial copious outpouring of archly romantic texts at the beginning of the trip has dwindled down to an occasional flurry. Like this morning’s perfunctory check-in: a photo of the sunrise from a penthouse, a snarky recap of a dinner party, asking about Flora and work. Neither texts nor thoughts have led Caroline anywhere closer to a clue on what or whom she really wants. There is a lot to be said for being in the moment, Sacha had once said, and in this particular moment she is making spaghetti sauce and looking forward to seeing Gillian and admitting to herself she has a ways to go before completely fucking everything up, so there is that. For the moment she will settle for occasionally fucking up her back; at this morning’s quickie yoga session her back gave out a mere ten minutes into the routine, prompting Greg to chirp that the first downward dog is always the hardest while clearly under the illusion that his commentary was in some way helpful.

With the sauce at perfect simmer she sprawls in a dining room chair for a moment, drinks wine, smiles at the frosty white glint of the Christmas lights from the living room ceiling that reflect into the hallway, and briefly persuades herself that she is queen of all she surveys when reality so far has only proven that she is nothing more than everyone’s bitch and a pushover for a three-year-old. She knew the moment Greg brought up Christmas plans last night at dinner—a pointless topic of conversation given that she can barely plan an outfit for the following day not to mention that she has her head up her arse about two very different women and if she has to eat quinoa pilaf one more time this month she may go mental—that a seed of holiday longing would be planted in Flora’s attentive, obsessive mind. The child spent the morning relentlessly grilling Caroline about when Christmas would occur and, more urgently, about the appearance of Christmas lights: where lights? when? Which devolved into the terse, repetitive command of lights! as if she were a tiny demented film director. 

So she got the lights. 

Appeasing a child can be easy enough; a middle-aged sheep farmer a far different matter and especially when you take sex out of the equation. She has no idea what frame of mind Gillian will be in when she arrives for dinner. Her one-liner texts from the morning consisted of bitching about parking in Halifax, the lateness of the solicitor, the bad cup of tea she had at an overpriced shop, and then later, her father’s never-ending critique of her driving as she took him to a doctor’s appointment. Over the course of the day Caroline experienced uneasy moments of doubt, fearing that Gillian might yet again reconsider divorce, might give Robbie yet another go. If nothing else, her hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-husband is expert at mining and manipulating the deep well of Gillian’s remorse to his ultimate advantage—performing an emotionally elegant sleight-of-hand that magically strips away her ragged self-esteem under the guise of stalwart support, convincing her that despite evidence to the contrary she fails at everything and possesses nothing but raw, naked vulnerability. A bizarro world version of the emperor’s new clothes, and gaslighting at its finest. She is certain Robbie does not possess enough self-awareness to know what he does; it is precisely in those who lack it that the most craven impulse outs itself with unerring cruelty.

  Meanwhile Lawrence arrives home, glares uncomprehendingly at the living room’s Christmas-in-August décor, and mutters a hit-and-run insult on the way to the refrigerator: “You’ve lost your mind.”

  For an infinitesimal moment she regards him, and then raises her glass in a toast. “Probably genetic, so welcome to your future.”

He rolls his eyes, drops a satchel on a chair. “Our future is the shitshow outside.” He guzzles neon-flavored Powerade. “Gran and Alan are in the driveway shouting at Gillian.” 

“Right.” Caroline sighs and returns to tending the sauce on the stove, poking at the onion softening slowly under its pearlescent dome. 

“Please tell me we’re not eating weird shit tonight,” Lawrence begs.

“Spaghetti.” 

“Thank God.”

The dinner guests plow through the doorway unannounced and without knocking. Gillian resembles a weary, wounded fox pursued by two gabbling old hounds—furrowed, scowling, and wincing as sniping cross-conversations pursue her. She wears one of her better flowery dresses and a matching navy blue cardigan sweater. The color-coordinated ensemble indicates that she asked Raff to pick it out, a task he does routinely, as he recently confessed to Caroline, but also reluctantly: This kind of thing will put me right into therapy, I know it will, he had said.

   Greetings are, apparently, out of the question as Alan and Celia carry on conversing. “What do you mean, the doctor wants to change your medication?” Celia says. 

Alan sighs. “It’s nothing, just a wee uptick in dosage—”

The remainder of the sentence goes unheard because Gillian finally meets her gaze and grins, and Caroline’s besotted brain goes on the blink at this live demonstration of collision theory: The chemical reaction, the charge that always existed between them is different now, the limits of those preexistent bonds are broken and altered into something new and viable and intense, and in the anguished relief and the reliable comfort of mere proximity now runs a strain of undisguised joy. 

At any rate, she is pretty certain it’s not just the fact that she offers Gillian a very generous pour of a very good white.  

As Gillian gratefully downs the vigonier, Alan sighs. “We’ll talk later,” he says to Celia. “Right now we are discussing Gillian—”

The mere utterance of her name brings about a reversion to a perpetual solid state of anger. Nose buried in the now-empty wineglass, Gillian seeks reprieve; she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, as if she can absorb each and every boozy airborne mote of wine. Then: “No,” she replies edgily. She sits the empty glass on the table and its jarring scrape marks a change in mood. “We’re not.”

“If you agree to settlement—” Alan begins. 

“No, I won’t.”  Gillian exhales violently, nods at the empty glass. “That’s all right, then,” she drawls, and then sets her lusty sights on Caroline in such a pointedly restrained fashion that a clandestine current of meaning crackles beneath innocuous conversation, and they both know that this combination of glance and tone will be interpreted by clueless observers in multifarious ways—as an in-joke about the wine or a veiled sarcastic commentary on divorce, present company, life as a whole—except the correct one. 

At least this is what Caroline hopes, because she notices her mother’s eyebrows arch in a curious fashion.   

“Settling would be the easiest solution,” Alan continues, oblivious to how his daughter’s eyes rake over her stepsister. 

Caroline looks away, bites her lip, gives the sauce an agitated stir that splatters the stovetop. “Glad you like it,” she replies softly.

“There more?” Gillian asks in an undertone that makes her shiver.

“Oh yeah.” Worrying that her quick assent runs a bit too throatily sensual, she clears her throat in such a larynx-shredding way that she sounds like Rumpole of the Bailey straining on the shitter. 

Solicitously Celia fetches her a glass of water. 

Alan reaches a point of shouty exasperation with his obstinate offspring. “Are you listening to me?” 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Gillian is right there on the summit with him. “Yeah, I am, Dad. But what you don’t get is, is, it’s done. I’m done. I’m not getting back with him, that’s a pipe dream, and I’m not giving him some sort of ‘financial settlement’ either—”

Oh, the finger quotes, Caroline sighs dreamily. How elegantly she employs them. 

“—and if you think I’m going to ask Gary for money you’re out of your f-f-bloody mind, he and Felicity already done enough for me. No, the quickest and cheapest way to get out of this bloody mess of my own making is my way.” Then, despite her best efforts, she surrenders a couple f-bombs: “And if it means I have ‘adultery’ written on my fucking divorce petition and ‘whore’ written across my fucking forehead, well then, let’s just leave it, all right?” 

This effectively silences nearly everyone but Lawrence. “Wow. Dinner might actually be interesting for once.”

Before Caroline can defuse the tension by offering drinks all around, Gillian seizes her by the wrist and, with a gentle tug, leads her out of the room.  “Going to have a chat. Be right back.” 

“Here we go again with the girl talk,” Celia says indulgently, as if Caroline and Gillian are teenagers gallivanting off to talk about boys and jewelry and makeup.

  “Talk some sense into her, Caroline!” Alan barks.

“Someone stir my sauce!” Caroline shouts back as she is led down the hallway, helpless as Richard III with the kingdom falling down about him, sauce probably ruined and the battle surely lost. Did Richard feel this euphoric as he headed for the fall? At the very end, what did he feel other than sheer relief at the inevitable?

  “What is this thing in the sauce?” she hears Celia trill. 

Alan is apprehensive. “It’s not the tofu, is it?” 

Before she can scream no it’s not the bloody tofu Gillian gently shoves her in the bathroom, slams the door shut, locks it, and before Caroline can eke out a word of concern or affection Gillian claps a hand around the back of her neck and kisses her ruthlessly—that all-consuming kiss that she specializes in, the kiss of Don Juan’s reckless daughter. They pinball around the tiny bathroom, collide against the sink, knock a hand towel off the towel rack, and kick the metallic bin that sounds a scuffling hiss followed up with a booming gong. She nearly trips over her own feet but instead plops down right onto the toilet seat, opting to give Gillian credit for steering her there rather than lust-driven clumsy happenstance, which accurately describes her dance style circa 1989 and usually at its most frenzied to Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” Then Gillian is on her lap—kissing her throat, biting her ear, fingernails of one hand etching the border of her scalp while the other eagerly cups her breast. She gathers a fistful of Gillian’s dress, the scratchy-soft fabric binds her knuckles and balls into her palm; self-bondage is the only thing preventing her from clawing bare skin with her nails and sliding her hand between those thighs and that is good because they are too close to fucking and the deep, sweet thrumming that rolls through Gillian’s throat drives her absolutely mad and she’s never been like this with anyone else before, no one, not John, not Kate, not Sacha or even some anonymous bint on the dance floor, no one. She has never been ravenous and reckless like this, never before abandoned her carefully considered plans of what love was or how it should be conducted. Love the abstraction, love the reality, dovetail dangerously into the current moment.  

The kisses slow down and in the hunger that lingers between them, like silence seeded into and enriching the adagio of a symphony, Caroline realizes that their burning savor is not from desire or wine alone but running along the familial lines of whiskey. She breathes gentle accusation into Gillian’s willing mouth: “You’ve been drinking.” 

It hardly seems unexpected, this pattern typical of Gillian: comfort sought in a bottle or a bloke. Should be glad it was the former and not the latter, Caroline thinks. So far as she knows, anyway, but then she can hardly demand sexual exclusivity when Gillian has given her free reign with Sacha. Their collision, their chemistry, has not completely broken all the bonds, nor recalibrated all the equations and reactions and networks. It has not—and most likely will not—reconfigure this whole complicated mess of molecules known as Gillian Greenwood, and this tempers Caroline’s disappointment.

Gillian pulls away slightly and squints comically, in the hope that playing up the role of lovable drunk will allay any potential Carolinian outbursts that simmer beneath a beautiful breastbone clad in an overpriced, casual linen blouse. 

“Did. You. Know,” she drawls, punctuating each word with a soft jab at Caroline’s sternum, “that for the past two and half years, ever since they got married, Dad and your mum have been cruelly, cruelly hoarding a spectacular bottle of single-malt scotch in their little love shack, a bottle they got as a wedding present from the bloody vicar?” 

Caroline sighs, groans, buries her face into Gillian’s neck—and inhales the weird manly shower gel that Raff owns and that his mother, out of sheer laziness, uses as well, and it possesses the power of a thousand colognes magnified into one spicy scent, like cheap cinnamon roasting in a toxic gas fire. On an actual man she would find it absolutely repulsive, but on a woman, this woman, it’s an inexplicable turn-on and so she sets to feasting on Gillian’s throat, but careful not to leave a mark. “I did not.”

Distinctly aware that she has offered herself as first course on the dinner menu—at least for the hostess—Gilliam stammers and squirms. “I n-needed to, um, reward myself for today.”

“Speaking of rewards— ” Caroline whispers. She releases the dress around her hand—and herself from the bonds of being good—and slips it between Gillian’s legs, fingers flat along her warm thigh and touching the scrunched elastic boundary of her panties, and then someone pounds on the door with such unbridled fury that Caroline knows immediately that it’s her most troublesome and stroppy child and she is both grateful for and infuriated at the unintentional cuntblock. 

From her comfy perch in Caroline’s lap Gillian attempts an elegant, faun-like leap to safety but instead elaborately and drunkenly staggers, kneels, and twists, inadvertently graceful as if she’s attempting an Orthodox Jewish wedding dance—but for the saving grace of frantically latching onto the sink she nearly ends up face down on the tiled floor. 

“GREG IS MAKING THE PASTA,” Lawrence booms. “AND HE’S STIRRING THE SAUCE.” 

Because Lawrence only pays attention to shouting, Caroline has no recourse to volley back a bellow. Which, given a heightened level of sexual frustration, is easy enough: “TELL HIM NOT TO GET RID OF THE ONION. I HAVE PLANS FOR THE ONION.” 

Whilst straightening and smoothing out her dress, Gillian stares at her suspiciously.  

“IT’S ALMOST READY AND IF YOU DON’T COME OUT NOW YOU’LL BE EATING TOFU CHIPS ALL NIGHT.” 

“ALL RIGHT. WE’LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE.”

“HAVE YOU WASHED MY SHIRTS YET?”

“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT YOUR SERVANT.” 

“BOY YOU’RE JUST REALLY MOTHER OF THE YEAR, AREN’T YOU?”  She hears him stomps away.  

“Mother of the year,” Gillian echoes. Tipsily she giggles, leans against the sink, hugs herself, and Caroline is struck—not for the first time—by the fierce singularity of her solitude, witnessed many a time in crowded pubs, at weddings, during dinners, over cups of tea and glasses of wine, even lying next to her in bed. You cannot fix people. This Caroline now knows. She spent eighteen years indulging John’s fantasy of being saved from himself and those efforts were, in fact, the essence and bedrock of their marriage. But the urge to fix and to save and to make right remains deeply inculcated in her; it is a force that compels and confounds at once.  

Wobbly, she gets up. In two steps she’s in front of Gillian and grips the edge of the sink with both hands, thus penning the shepherdess like one of her ewes. Not that she wants to trap Gillian, but rather retain meager control over not only the situation but also her wandering hands. In response Gillian’s fingers tap the buttons of her shirt, drumming out a subversive Morse code, dots and dashes of defiant desire.  “You going to tell me what happened today?”

“Didn’t drag you in here to talk,” Gillian says, with a tug on Caroline’s blouse. A kiss, a nip of the lower lip, the sweet shock of pain. “There’s nothing to tell.” The lie is followed by a softer, wetter kiss. “It’s shit. It’s toss. It’ll be over soon.” Gillian pauses and there is a sensual wavering of the moment, as a flag in full furl before the wind dies down, all revealed in the microcosmic flutter of her eyelids. “We can talk later. If you like. After dinner.”

“All right.” Caroline is grateful she’s still holding onto the sink’s edge, because her knees buckle. “You look good. Really good.”

Gillian barks out a laugh and gives her a playful push. “You hate this dress.”

“What? No.” Automatically, Caroline straightens with indignation. 

“Called it a peasant dress once, you did.” 

“I did not.” Even as she denies it, she can hear herself saying it while in that cabernet-tinted cloud of repressed emotion that she operated in when they first met.  

With an eyeroll, Gillian shoves her against the bathroom door, bites her neck, her earlobe, runs a wild, unrepentant tongue along the gentle swell of her throat, and hisses “peasant” at her. 

Caroline shivers. “Must’ve been drunk.” 

“Or just being a bitch.” 

“Or that.” She sighs. “So. Shall we? Once more unto the breach, then?”

While brushing back the bangs from Caroline’s forehead, Gillian smiles with undisguised fondness; it’s unnerving, exhilarating, so much so that Caroline is caught deliriously off guard. “Comb your hair first,” Gillian replies. Then, with an exaggerated look at Caroline’s chest: “And calm your tits.”  

As Caroline takes mortified account of over-exuberant nipples, Gillian darts out of the bathroom. She exhales a long breath, brushes her hair, and wills her body into submission. 

In the kitchen Greg has taken over. She sets the table. Gillian gets more wine. Alan and Celia seriously debate whether Alan’s doctor resembles Richard Harris “before he started looking like a drunk.” Lawrence ignores everyone and everything except his mobile. Flora runs amok and takes it upon herself to show the Christmas lights in the living room to Gillian, who reacts with the appropriate awe and outlandish questions that make Flora cackle with delight: Did you put those up yourself, love?  

Dinner starts out pleasantly enough, if only because everyone sublimates a spectrum of frustrations with pasta. Sacha would approve, Caroline thinks—and quickly quashes that thought as she admires her own plating expertise. 

“The sauce is great,” Greg says, and then adds teasingly, “despite the lack of tofu.”

Caroline leans back. “Yeah? Thanks. And thanks for helping.” 

“Your own recipe?” 

“No. From Marcella Hazan.” 

Lawrence, of course, tosses in the first conversational Molotov cocktail. “That another girlfriend?”

Gillian chokes on wine in such an elaborate fashion that it distracts Flora from endlessly twirling—and eventually wearing— the spaghetti on her plate. 

As his daughter violently coughs and wheezes into a napkin, Alan shakes his head. “Always eats and drinks like a convict, she does. Gulping down everything.” 

“Marcella Hazan was a food writer,” Caroline replies patiently to her idiot son. “And she’s dead.”

“Was she a lesbian?” Lawrence drawls mischievously.

Celia sighs. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Spastic fit over and done, Gillian wags a finger at her wineglass. “That’s, um, really, really powerful stuff, Caz.” 

“Then maybe you should stop for the night,” Alan says.

Gillian gives him a disingenuous, snarling smile. “Well, old man,” she begins slowly, “maybe you should—” 

“—have dessert!” Caroline interjects as Gillian glares at her, boldly telegraphing a reproach for preventing her from telling her father to fuck off. 

Exhausted from an afternoon of father-daughter verbal sniping, Celia jumps in rather desperately: “What is for dessert?”

Beaming proudly, Greg pats his belly to indicate that a culinary delight is headed to the table: “Strawberry banana tofu ice cream.” 

The family scatters to the wind: Lawrence scuttles upstairs, Celia murmurs something about biscuits at home that need eating before they go stale and drags her grumbling husband away lest he take up verbal fisticuffs with his surly daughter again, and Greg engages Flora in a game called “A Night at the Races,” where he and Flora run up and down the hallway in a very obvious attempt to tire her out. Briefly Gillian joins in the race until she is reprimanded for running with wine, and then disappears into the living room.  

  All this happens as Caroline cleans up. Afterward she relieves Greg of parental duty and gets Flora in the bathtub, where she is copiously splashed and anointed with suds in the process. Prelude to bedtime includes more running around upstairs, then the reading of a tale involving pandas playing badminton—the lesson implicit in the story involves good sportsmanship but Caroline’s takeaway is that maybe pandas shouldn’t be playing badminton to begin with. At the end of the tale Flora is still awake and demands more panda adventures. So Caroline improvises a story of a panda chemist who creates a magic potion that turns humans into pandas. As she rattles off ingredients for the imaginary formula—lewisite, calcite, phosgene oxime, titanium, feta cheese, pseudoephedrine, monkey brains, eucalyptus oil, banana farts—Flora falls asleep to the litany and Caroline dismally realizes that all her children are bored silly by her beloved chemistry. 

Downstairs she finds Gillian alone, sunk into the couch, shoes kicked off, bare feet on the coffee table and terribly close to a glass of wine. Despite the relaxed pose her restless hands wrestle in the soft, inviting arena of her lap. She stares up at the small, white lights that limn the dimensions of the room and form an unimaginative rectangular constellation around them. Gillian likes starwatching, can rattle off useless facts about the planets, and Caroline swears to God that she heard Gillian say Cassiopeia the other day when they made love—a faint, ardent susurration on her skin. Caroline knows little about stars except that they collapse and break apart and their remnants hold court in the glimmering corridor of a nebula. Perhaps that’s it, Caroline thinks. There is no fixing or handling Gillian—who looks up at her now and smiles. There is nothing to do but gather together her bright broken pieces and keep them safe.  

“This is nice,” Gillian says. “With the lights.”

The glow of the room brings her back to the Eddie confession, the two of them sitting on the sofa in Gillian’s home in front of the fire. In the years since they have sat together in silences ranging widely from the amiable to the charged, and so much has happened since that evening: Deaths and births and marriages and divorces and in the midst of it all is this woman whose presence in her life, whose volatility she cannot contain or really even fathom, remains fixed and constant. 

Tiredness kicks in, the flow of lust runs sluggish in her veins. That and Gillian looks fairly knackered as well, so she doesn’t have to worry about another barely controlled makeout session. But before attempting any gesture that could be viewed as more than sisterly affection by even the most objective bystander, she glances around. “Where’s Greg?”

Gillian stifles a yawn. “Went out, he asked me to tell you. Meeting his lady friend for a drink.” She snorts and says the woman’s name in a wispy falsetto: “Brigitte.” 

Sputtering a laugh, Caroline dives into the couch next to her. “Oh God. He told you about her.”

“Yep. Know everything about her now. Like, for example, she got perfect A levels—”

Caroline snorts derisively. “So did I.”

“’Course you did. I know what kind of wine she likes—”

“What?”

“Fucking chardonnay, Caz.” 

“Is that different from regular chardonnay?”

Gillian grins and leans into her. She takes Caroline’s hand in her own, her thumb presses into the fleshy swale of Caroline’s palm, massaging a sweet pressure point that makes Caroline sag contentedly into overstuffed cushions. “Get this, she cried at the end of Titanic. I mean, I cried at the end of Titanic but only because I’d just wasted three hours of my bloody life watching it.”  

“I fell asleep during Titanic,” Caroline confesses. 

“Smartest decision of your life.” 

While Caroline is content to have Gillian’s head resting against her shoulder and her hand massaged and caressed ad infinitum—as such they sit in silence for several long, exquisite minutes—she wonders if the subject of the day in divorce court should be raised. She hadn’t even known about the event until Alan mentioned it yesterday. Gillian has so many layers of unpredictability that sometimes in comparison other people appear almost logical, forthright, and uncomplicated. Of course, the limitations of her emotional intelligence force comparison with Kate—wondering once again if Kate had untold contradictions and complexities of character, or if Caroline was simply too selfish and self-involved to put forth a real effort of discovery. Think we all know the answer to that, twat, she tells herself. If Kate were alive, would she still be blundering through existence with a wife who was largely unknown to her? Has Gillian, through her own desperate needs, somehow inadvertently brought out powers of perception in Caroline that were otherwise dormant? 

  Sod it, she thinks, and asks cautiously: “Was it bad? Today?”

Gillian groans and, to Caroline’s disappointment, releases her hand and sits up—rather, hunches and hovers nervously over the coffee table. “Same as it ever is. My brilliant history of disappointing everyone. See it on everyone’s face. My dad. Robbie. Even your mum.” She reaches for the wine, stares into the glass. “Maybe someday you’ll look at me like that.” She gulps down the last of it and before Caroline can vigorously deny the claim, plows on. “Let’s begin with the old man, shall we? He cares what people think, my dad does. Remember when Gary gave that interview and ‘outed’ him, so to speak? Well, he’s acting like this is on the same level, it being on ‘public record’ that I’m an adulterer. Like who gives a shit anymore about things like that. Anyone who knows me knows it’s my fault anyway, right? Yeah, I know, you’re gonna say not my fault, shouldn’t have married Robbie, should have embraced a life of lesbianism—”

“I’d never say that,” Caroline replies. 

Gillian squints at her accusingly. “Probably thinking it.” 

“I think that about every woman, really.” 

This, at least, makes Gillian grin for a moment. “But the thing is, I did marry him, I did cheat on him—I did.” She repeats it softly: “I did. And it’s just one more thing I’ve done wrong in a very f-fucking long list and every time he looks at me, I see him ticking off things in that mental list”—her index finger spasms and marks off items in imaginary list written on air—“all the things he knows I’ve done, all the things he suspects, and, Christ, it’s all m-messed up, really messed up—you know why?”

“Why?”

Gillian stares at her with the same sneering incredulousness that, most likely, greeted Robbie when he made the following suggestion: “After all this shit we talked about with the bleeding lawyers today, as I’m leaving he waylays me and says he still wants to get back together. Work it out. He looks at me as if everything about me is wrong, that I am the source of all his misery, and he still wants me. It completely does my head in. Is that what love is supposed to be?” She shakes her head, burrows back into the sofa. “He’s wanted to marry me since he was sixteen—he, he said that to me once. His way of proposing.” 

“He’s not sixteen anymore,” Caroline replies. “And neither are you.” She thinks of Robbie—who never set foot outside of the country until his honeymoon, always wears the same shirt-and-tie combo to holiday gatherings, who still owns a Yorkshire rugby team blanket that he bought some thirty-five years ago and always insisted using it as a throw on the marital bed and then got quite cross with Gillian when she used it as bedding for an arthritic old sheep dog. 

“Even when I was sixteen, I—Jesus, I didn’t want to marry anyone. I mean, I didn’t know who I was. Couldn’t find my arse with both hands. Still can’t.”

  “It’s not love on his part,” Caroline says as she absently tucks hair around Gillian’s ear. “It’s an inability to grow up, move on, let go. He thinks he has some special claim on you, because he was your first—”

Gillian stretches and sits up, moving out of Caroline’s grasp. “He wasn’t.” 

“Wasn’t he?” Admittedly Caroline is unsure of details; trying to establish some sort of shagging timeline with regard to Gillian’s romantic past has always seemed a fool’s quest, or at the very least an effort warranting a first-class historian possessing patience and superior spreadsheet skills beyond her own modest capabilities. 

“I mean—he, he was the first person I had it off with, but he wasn’t the first person I loved.”

“Eddie, then,” Caroline says. Which makes sense. Gillian has never said as much explicitly, but in her stories about Eddie his magnetism, charm, and good looks were easily envisioned and Caroline vividly imagines the façade of his rough, alluring beauty, as if he were some kind of modern Dorian Gray, that overlaid the monstrous, festering piece of shit that he actually was.

Poised attentively on the couch, Gillian tucks her hands under her thighs. It’s a new trick, Caroline has noticed, a move to prevent her from biting her fingernails. Instead she ends up gnawing her lower lip. “No.”

Caroline pauses. “Oh.” She hopes that she has struck the right note of calm interest and not condescending, snotty-bitch surprise.   

“You want to ask, I know.”

“You’ve no obligation to tell me anything,” Caroline says firmly, then continues in a slower, gentler tone: “I can guess, based on things you’ve told me before.”

Gillian says nothing, only frowns and looks away. 

“It was one of those women? From Hebden Bridge?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never talked much about them. Or—her.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You were very young.”

This statement of fact, framed however cautiously, lingers as an accusation and puts Gillian on the defensive. Which Caroline did not mean to do, but there was no other way of putting it out there. She rolls her shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking.” 

“You were fourteen.”

“Fifteen,” Gillian corrects absently. She stills her restless hands, her fingers interlock and lace together tightly over her knee and remind Caroline of a puzzle she had as a child, she thinks it was called a bamboozler, where the challenge is careful dismantling followed by skillful rebuilding. Gillian looks up again at the orderly constellation of white lights that bathe them in a Milky Way of memories. It takes 25,000 light years to travel to the Milky Way, a journey that would be an epic mind-fuck of time’s perpetual collision: future, present, past. What time is it in the Milky Way? Caroline wonders. With increasing distance the past entices, always, and Gillian is no more immune to it than Robbie or anyone else. 

“You’re thinking it was wrong,” Gillian says. “That she hurt me, took advantage of me. Maybe that’s all true. Yeah, I guess, I guess maybe it is. But you don’t understand. You don’t know how it felt—how I felt. It was like, like a new world for me and I was the bloody center of it, she made me feel that and—I really, really believed it, all of it.” She pauses. “Including the part where she said she loved me.”

With this crucial piece of the Gillian Greenwood puzzle in place, a design looms large, a pattern discerns itself. Enough so that Caroline requires for the moment no further details, no more components. Even though Gillian adds softly, “And I loved her.”

CHAPTER SOUNDTRACK:

Ella Fitzgerald, “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”  Cigarettes After Sex, “Apocalypse” The National, “Empire Line” BONUS NONSENSE! Marcella Hazan’s tomato sauce recipe.

[soitendslikethis1606]

Travel journal 2017

I wrote this once on my phone just before we lost our passports and the panic attacked and I forgot to save it so here am I writing this again. I am in the airport, about to fly back to Singapore. We have ended our first long trip together. We have never stopped moving for the past 3 weeks. We walked everyday for at least 6-7 km, taking any walk that google map suggests as below 30mins. In the last unexpected days in Paris, it went up to a lot of 1hour walks because we were just fed up with the crowded and fifthy metros, as well as the nerve cracking mentility we had every time we get on it, worrying that some pickpocketing might happen again- although we had had almost nothing left to be stolen. The walking is partially because we don't drive but also because we see so much more when we walk. Plus, I just enjoyed walking with Anh, we never ran out of things to talk about. One day we walked up to 20km, hiking up to a waterfall in a small town on the other side of the lake from Annecy. Next day, we cycled another 20km around that lake. The craziest hike was from Odda to Trolltunga, up to 1100m attitude, 11km up, 12km down on the next day. 1km extra because I hurt my knee and couldn't take the stiff slope down. We came ill prepared. Not enough warm clothes and water proof materials for our backpacks. It was raining on and off all day on the day we went up. Everything was wet as soon as we reached the iconic 'touge'. Anh fell down several times, some were funny to watch, some just made my heart literally skip a beat. I saw snow for the first time but it's just too cold for me to be excited about it. Cold, slippery, exhausted. We camped overnight on the top. It's scary... but the view was just so breaktaking that we almost forgot how scary it was to hike under the rain in clothes that are suitable for just a lovely sunny day. The most surreal moment was when the fog gradually went away and the sun shone on the rocky side of the mountain. It's lit up, shimmering.. I told Anh it made me almost believe in God. Next day we went down it was the most beautiful sunny day I've ever had. Never before have I so yearn for the sun. I took a fall on the way down, hurt my butt and bruise my arm badly. I think the bruise is just making me look tougher, or making people look at Anh subspiously, thinking there is some kind of domestic abuse going on between us. We talked to Howard- an ex military man and Maika- a professional trainer for outdoor activities and outdoor living - they are two guides leading us up and down the mountain. They are just super human to us. When asked what the highest mountain she has ever climbed, Maika said it's not the highest one that is the toughest, it's the longest one. Hers was a 15day hike continuously, carrying her own clothes and food supplies for the whole journey (for this tour, they carried food, tents and sleeping bags up for us, we only carried our clothes and essentials yet at the 4th or 5th kilometer, and already it felt like rock on my back). People in Norway also speak fluently several languages. Even the girl serves at our hostel restaurant speak fluently 5 languages and is learning another 2. When she spoke to Lucille- a French friend we made staying in the same hostel room in Odda, Lucille said she has perfect french. How amazing is that? We came to realise how physically weak we are compared to people from else where in the world and there are so much more, so many things for us to learn in this life. It motivates me to learn Chinese now as I'm back.. I'm just not sure how long the motivation would last until I need another trip for motivation :P Being on top of Trollunga is one of the proudest things I've ever done and I'm sure Anh feels the same. Definitely best moment of this year and most of all I've got to share it with Anh. ----- I had a mix feeling toward Paris. I'm not going to defense Paris from Anh anymore about how filthy, messy and choastic it is and how rude people are in Paris. Sorry French friends, there always are nice people and rude people anywhere I know that for a fact, but we tried our best talking to people as much as we want to get to know the place and its people. We just didn't get much friendly response, not to mention the increasing crimes in the city. The police just gets used to thef and pickpocketing reports. One policewoman even talked to us as if putting my wallet inside my backpack and had it stolen is entirely and obviously my fault. However, Paris is still charming to me in a way, put aside all those bad experiences. We didn't have anyone else apart from each other to talk to when we were there- maybe that's one of the reason why Paris is less exciting. But we found our way to entertain ourselves. I went to a jazz club and danced it off with Anh for the first time. Believe it or not, 6 years together and I've never been to a club with Anh before. Yet suddenly with jazz, the modern, trendy dance moves became irrelevant. They played in the basement built with bricks walls, low ceiling and not every spacious. The lead saxophone stopped at the end of each song to introduce the name of the next sone with a short description. I like the way he did that- reminds me of the scene in La la land where Seb told Mia that people don't understand jazz because they never really listen to it. Jazz always just music in the background in restaurants or some gatherings. So the way the lead saxophone introduced each song made me feel like each song is beautiful and they mean it everytime they play it, that people actually care, that they were there for the music itself- not something jazzy in the background. We danced to two or three songs, crazy moves. We were the worst dancers.. but who cares haha. The rest of the time we watched people dance. Night fell and we walked a little bit to North Dame, sat in front for a while then went home. It was Anh's birthday that night. It was a successful birthday: we had good Pho, listened to live jazz and walked the city of Paris with endless talking. I was deeply thankful to whoever has the power to arrange for people to meet each other because I met Anh and we stay together, and tomorrow wouldn't be boring even though I had no idea what we were going to do the next day. I knew with Anh we would have fun.. Paris is all about art- that's what people say. Of course we had our own art experience too. We went by the Lourve and saw people ridiculously queued up for, I guess, a kilometer long under the sun just to come in and see the tiny Mona Lisa. I wonder how many of them actually understand those artworks in there. We came back here later after we lost our passports and stuck in Paris. The queue was better and Anh asked if I wanted to come inside for once, since we were already there. But I looked it up online and their paintings are from the renaissaince period- which I'm not very much interested in.. so we didn't come in. Instead, Musee de Orsay just made my dream come true. Monet. Van Gogh. Manet. Renoid. Camille. Gauguin. Bonnard. Even Picasso before he drew abstract and cubism. All of them in one place. I remember finding their paintings when I was a kid looking through dad's magazine cutouts; when I was in school daydreaming on tumblr during school lessons; when I was in my darkest days. And they were just real in front of my eyes. I could see the strokes that they made, how big the paintings are (poor Van Gogh he got the smallest paintings which made my heart sank), how different it is to look closely and look from distance. I could smell the oil paint in the rooms which I think just another trick the museum does to stimulate experience; yet it really got me. I discovered new artists I never heard of before but I love their paintings in there. Anh hadn't really been into art.. but he accompanied me to these place anyway. I love it when he said he loved Monet's the Water lily bond and the House of Parliment London; love that he cared about what I like. Nexy day we went to the Centre Pompiduo. This was where it channelled Anh's inner 9gag boy. We debated for a good hour on whether modern art is really art or just people's way of bullshiting their socalled arts. It was a good talk yet I still couldn't turn him around- at least we shared. We were just hanging around in the campus and watching this performance artist sweeping yellow paddy rice. His exagerating movements made it feel like he was dancing. The way I saw it is that he was making those stroke on the black floor using his random movements and create quiet interesting texture on the floor. After awhile there was another girl came in to continue doing that for him. Anh just hated it, he said they are pretendious and exagerating shit to make it look artistic but it has no meaning. We had another good talk over that until we were hungry and left. That's the only reason he could convince me out of some place I got hooked to. I regreted not coming into the exhibitions. Maybe some good, thought-provoking, meaningful masterpieces in there could convince Anh for me without saying a word. ----- Castellane is soooo lovely. Perfect weather. Sunny but not so burning. We were staying at a BnB not far from the town centre with Leo and Petra. They are the loveliest couple I've ever met hands down. We had long chats with them every morning during our breakfast about so many things- like me and Petra trying to convince Anh to believe in real modern art. One morning Petra rushed to our room calling our names, asking if we want to see a troop of thousand sheeps, donkeys and mountain goats on their journey up to the mountain. We ran to the road, stood by, waiting for them. There were literally thousand of them! 1060 to be exact. They each had a bell on their necks and the whole troop make an oschetra when they walk. It's just amazing.. I've never seen so many sheeps before, nor the way farmers do their work. Petra let us know that they travel up to the higher alpes in the summer for greener grass when it gets too hot and grass on flat land turns brown. We tried to talk to some of the farmers and felt so heartwarming that although their english is really limited, as much as our french, they tried to tell us about their journey. (See Parisians.. they are just farmers and they speak english to us). Up until we met there, they have walked 12km in 10 days. We walked with them for a while then left for out water trekking trip. The water trekking trip almost scared the shit out of us. Gorge de Verdon is so beautiful, so so beautiful, even better seeing from below, just above the water. The water was so fast and strong, it's scary at the same time. We were floating, letting our bodies go with the water flow. There are times I thought my head would hit a big rock. The route also includes some jumping off a high rock onto the water. And I think I would never forget the feeling I had in the moment after I just throw myself in the air and before my body touches water. It's indescriptable. Next morning we felt like seeing the animals again so we went for a hike up, tracing after their poops- yes they poop a lot along the way. But then we lost track, couldn't find them and end up at the lake. I made Anh do some kayaking. While stopping for our lunch, still on the boat, a spider appeared and Anh freaked out- no suprise for me. After we managed to turn away from the burst, the spider out of sight, he said he really wanted to jump down into the water. Apparently he couldn't. He was halfway finishing his bread with pate filling, couldn't risk wasting the food. Yep, that's my boyfriend. Not until were we in Castellane that we had a full course real french dinner. The first dinner was delicious! Just like the restaurant's name: Ô Delicion.. we were the first to be there. The French usually have late dinner, around 8 I guess. We usually get hungry around 6 and always need to wait until 7 when the shops are open. I had terrine for appetiter, Anh had artichoke soup. The soup was really nice and I kept thinking about how beautifully shaped the artichoke is before it's cooked- just a random thought. My main course was devine, tenderly cooked port chop with a kind of mushroom that I had never had before. It went with 2 sides: fish egg and some kind of baked egg with vegetable. Anh was jealous of my main dish because he only had average fish with the same sides for himself. The French are really great at cooking. Even the Vietnamese food is better in French than in anywhere else we've been to. I told Anh to stop comparing them to the British because it's such an insult- do the British really cook anything good? ---- Almost 2 weeks since I'm back. Finally got my sound sleep back last night. I've always been exhausted. So many things to catch up and so many plans to be done. Tonight Ellen didn't take the train home with me, chi G didn't join me for dinner. I have the evening for myself. I feel sad about not having Anh beside me. I remember feeling we were so strong and we could be anything when we were together. Now we are apart- he couldn't fix my computer and I couldn't attend his graduation. Maybe I just miss anh. I think of the good time we had when we were on the trip. Reading the news about Dear Vincent movie remind me of Annecy- a lovely town down south France. I regret we had time but didn't try to ask around if the movie was being screened there because I knew its premier screen had just ended a week before we arrived. Now I need to wait until they screen it in Singapore which would take forever... not many people interested in such movie I suppose. When we were in Annecy it were the sunniest days of the trip. We fell right in love with the airbnb we stayed in as soon as we arrived. Cecile- our host showed us around with phone in her hand, a translate apps open ready. The house is isolated from the touristy madness outside in the market. There is a lovely garden leading to an openning where you can go down to the river running across the town. We spent afternoons sitting there, seeing people above the bridge, waiting for the ducks and swans to swim by and feed them. Anh totally loved that activity, best with an ice cream in hand (ice cream is for him not the ducks).

[umichenginabroad]

England: Round 2

One of my goals while in Europe was to find some places to hike and, if possible, to camp. Even though I typically have long weekends and can travel, getting to a suitable hiking destination is still often not reasonable. This past week was my spring break, meaning I actually had the time to do something bigger than visiting a city or two.

During my research, I found that the outdoor culture is not quite the same here in Europe and that it varies significantly by country. Camping exists, but not in the same capacity. There are paid campsites, but not very many places where backcountry camping is legal - the Scandinavian countries being the exception. In the US parks, there are often designated backcountry spots along trails. Based on that, my timeframe, budget, park pages, and discussion boards, I decided I'd head to the Lake District in England, where camping is... tolerated.

Trying to work out an itinerary

The park is in the north of England, so I had to consider my means of transportation. After quite a lot of research and coordination, I eventually settled on a series of buses and trains to get me from Troyes to the district. The trip there was not without issues, which started from the very beginning. The first challenge was simply getting out of Troyes. My apartment is a couple of  miles from downtown, so I had to stay with some friends in order to get to the train station for my 5:12 AM departure. I thought I'd get to bed early and rest, but that did not happen. Instead, we stayed up until 3 AM talking, and I woke up an hour and a half later to head to the station. I was tired, but the conversation we all had was worth the fatigue.

One of my hosts, Carlos, was kind enough to wake up at the same time to take me on his bike. I told him he didn't need to do that, but he said that you can't say no to your Mexican host. (I did get out without him giving me any food that morning, though.) We arrived on time, only to find that my train had been cancelled - a great start to any trip.

At the train station, I (finally) met Christian, a student from Canada, who was also supposed to take the earliest train. Sadly, that wasn't his first cancelled journey in the past 24 hours. To our relief, we were able to board the next train and make it to Paris with enough time to get where we each needed to go. Having avoided any significant problem, I thought my troubles were done there, but I should have known better.

After spending the next night in London with my friend, Elli, and her visiting parents, I made it to the Victoria Coach Station to learn that my ride had already left. I realized that I had entered my bus trip in my calendar for Central European Time. I made the mistake of not adjusting for the one hour difference and didn't double-check the actual ticket, thus I showed up too late. Unlike the French train, I had to buy a new ticket to try to make my next connection in Manchester. It was a slightly stressful journey that came down to about 10 minutes, but I did make my train.

I shouldn't have been surprised to have issues. Every real backpacking trip has bumps in the road. In fact, it's not a good trip without difficulties; they make for better stories. I have always maintained that backpacking is about lending perspective. It is often enjoyable, but it can be equally miserable, making you appreciate what you normally have in life. Perhaps difficult travels are the same. Maybe they make you thankful for the little things: punctual transportation, fast bus drivers, etc.

At the Lakes, there are more sheep than people. 

One of the first things that sticks out about the Lakes is the animals. It's really just hiking through sheep. They are EVERYWHERE. There was also a trail that took me right past some cows. I felt very out of place at that point, but I realized that it's just the nature of the park. In fact, I had a discussion about that idea with some other hikers later on. We talked about how the parks in the US are different; they can be truly wild. It's simply the result of being a younger nation.

In places like England, there were already developments all over when the idea for national parks came about. Because of that, there is an understanding between the landowners/farmers and the National Trust, which runs the park. So if you find yourself in someone's backyard next to their cows, you didn't necessarily make a wrong turn.

Even way up here there were sheep and lambs all around. 

The hiking in the district can be tough. There is a lot of elevation change on many of the paths. It's not at altitude like other mountain ranges in the world; the highest peak is only at about 3,300 feet. However, climbing 3,000 feet can still be tiring.

My days were filled with all sorts of ups and downs, literally and figuratively. It was like doing stairs all day with 30 pounds on my back, and my feet paid for it. I ended up with some wicked blisters, which will hopefully go away soon. Sometimes morale was low, something that can be harder to change when you're going solo. I learned that when I started to feel grumpy, it was generally time to eat something.

Sometimes the path was not exactly a trail, but rather the way that looks least unpathlike, if that makes any sense.

The weather contributed to some of those ups and downs - and to the blisters. I experienced it all (sun, rain, snow, wind, cold), some of which was more extreme than I had imagined. The lady at the border control stop did warn me. When I told her where I was going she said, "Still pretty cold up there." And of course I brushed it off, reassuring her, "It's okay. I'm from Michigan."

She was right. It was cold. My first night was a bit of a shock. It was cold enough that it was snowing when I woke up, and with the wind, I reckon the wind chills probably dipped below 20°F during the night. Despite that, I knew I'd be fine. I slept with more layers after that and was much warmer.

The nighttime temperatures were a small challenge, but the dampness from the rain and snow was the worst. Wet hiking and camping is pretty miserable, stretching Type 2 fun to its maximum. After the first night, I ended up going to a store in town to buy some nicer gloves because I knew it would be a long trip without them. Waterproof and much warmer than my others, the new gloves felt much better. After also putting on dry socks, I was reinvigorated and ready to tackle more steep climbs.

Always remember: happy feet + happy hands = happy hiker

Besides the second night, which was miserable due to the fact that everything that wasn't damp from before got wet when I had to set up in the rain, the rest of the trip's weather was manageable. In fact, I even got a slight sunburn on my face at the end of the trip. It was sort of like Michigan, I suppose, where you get a taste of everything.

Precipitation presents challenges when backpacking, but it also presents some opportunities for good stories and a few cool pictures.

By the end, I was ready to be done. It's an inevitable feeling. As I mentioned before, the park is located in a district with farms and establishments. There are little towns throughout, making it impossible to avoid signs of civilized life. I took that as an opportunity to eat lunch each day that wasn't food from my pack. But even with those meals, I still went many days without showering and was sleeping in a tent, so I was really looking forward to cleaning up and resting. That "end of the trip" desire was summed up perfectly by Georgia, a girl I happened to meet on the road.

"A bed provides the comfort of a cloud/pillow fort/duvet burrito," she explained. And oh how I enjoyed my duvet burrito that first night after I left the Lakes.

Georgia and I also agreed the hat hair look is in. 

As I mentioned in the beginning, there are other possible destinations for camping, but what really sealed the deal for this trip was the opportunity to spend some time in Manchester. It just so happened that Manchester United had a Europa League fixture during the week against a Belgian club, Anderlecht. Once I saw that and realized I had a chance to hike and to go to a game, I knew I couldn't pass that up.

After my time at the Lakes, I made my way to Manchester (in less of a hurry). Normally, I would have walked all around the city, but my feet needed to recover. I decided to relax and study a little, instead. Then I made my way to Old Trafford in the evening.

I could feel myself smiling as soon as the stadium came into view, and I think I sort of stayed that way the entire time. I haven't followed the team nearly as much as I used to, but I felt as invested as ever while there.

Going to a game at Old Trafford has been a dream of mine for years, and to be honest, I got so caught up in the experience that I only took three pictures. But that's okay. That was one of my goals, right? It was a great game that ended up going to extra time, where United won 2-1. The perfect end to a fantastic trip.

"U-N-I-T-E-D, United are the team for me!"

I'm back in Troyes now, but only temporarily. I have a lot to do in a short period of time. Some unpacking and cleaning, studying and work, research and planning for trips, and then packing for Italy next week! History, art, food, AND Michigan football in Rome!

A la prochaine,

Cole Schneider

Materials Science and Engineering

Université de Technologie de Troyes

[mothershipresidencies]

Brendan Jackson

By the time I came to the Mothership, I changed my plan...

I had intended to make a series of photographs using a battered old mahogany and brass Gandolphi camera with a zeiss lens, dating from the 1920’s. I expected the images to be somewhat experimental. The last time I used this was nearly 30 years ago and then the images were pin sharp in the centre but a little fuzzy wound the edges, so who knows how they might turn out now. I had the camera and tripod and a black sheet to cover myself with; I had sourced some 5 x 4 Ilford black and white HP5 film; I dug out old darkroom equipment but I couldn’t find the double dark slides I thought were in the loft, so I found some online. They turned up two days before I was due to travel, only I had been sent 10 x 8 slides in error. I tried the local college, who still keep a chemical darkroom, but the technicians were away (half term). So the plan changed.

I know Dorset from my childhood vacations with my favourite auntie who lived in Dorchester. I had spent a lot of teenage holidays here and had my first real job at the (old) Dorset County Hospital, working in the kitchens. I undertook my first photographic project and exhibition here ‘A Brief Guide to Piddletrenthide in the Valley of the River Piddle’, entirely inspired by local people, their stories and connection to the place they lived and worked. It’s what has interested me ever since.

So I decided to undertake a series of walks, following in the footsteps of others here (though not Richard Long on his 1975 Cerne Abbas walk). I would walk by day, as the weather was mostly fine – though one rain swept day I spent in the Dorset Heritage Centre digging through archives – then at night I lit the stove and read old local guidebooks and literature, as well as a few Ray Bradbury stories (one highlight of my childhood holidays was reading Bradbury paperbacks and comics bought from a shop on the esplanade in Weymouth).

My Aunt first came to Dorset in the Spring of 1946. She came from Birr in Ireland where she worked in a leather factory and corresponded with a certain Mr Clark of Street in Somerset (who offered her a job, which brought her to England and provided her with a fine reference). She came to Dorset County Hospital to train as a nurse. She was 26 years old. Her cousins in Wimbledon took their holidays in Dorset and told Monica she was less likely to feel homesick in a town like Dorchester, as it had a similar character to Birr. Indeed it did and Monica lived the rest of her life there.

Here are some of my reflections during this time...

 A single walk in straight line

The sea is calm enough, a little bit of breeze but not the kind of blaster to blow the cod inshore. He’s been here since 6.30am and now it’s early afternoon. I’ve had a few nibbles, nothing much, he says, but I really don’t mind, I just love being out here. He carefully skewers lugworm onto a hook. He also has some squid as bait for the cod, but he might save that for another day. In the warmer months, this beach is a popular site for mackerel, when they can come inshore in large numbers. Some old second world war sea concrete defences, known as the Dragon’s Teeth, tumble down into the sea, and it’s here they say is the best mark for the fishing. The fish can be caught at close range as the beach shelves steeply. What can you catch here? In the summer, Bass and Gurnard, Bream, Dogfish, Scad, Trigger Fish and Flatties. Mackerel of course. Now, in winter, Cod and Codling, Whiting, Plaice and Rockling. I don’t know half these names they tell me, so I nod and smile. Well, good luck, I say and carry on my way. In the distance it’s clear and sharp enough to make out the lighthouse at the end of the Isle of Portland.

A Circular Walk around Eggardun Hill

At the end of the old roman road from Dorchester, the ‘Highway of the West’, at the spur of a curving ridge rises the Iron Age hill fort of Eggardun. It may be lesser known or appreciated than triple ramparted Mai Dun, but the views from here are far superior, of countryside that has barely changed in my lifetime, or perhaps even in the last three hundred years. The sweep of the coast towards Golden Cap and Devon beyond, the dazzle of the sea, a glimpse of Pilsdon Pen, in between the soft hills and downs, woods and valleys, scattered farm buildings, strip lynchets revealed by the angle of the sun. Now only inhabited by rabbits and sheep, these slopes and ditches were constructed of huge mounds of chalk, no doubt a gleaming white beacon when first raised up by the metal users. The bareness of the grass now testifies to ‘a long friendship with rough winds’, as one walker described these heights in the 1930’s, striding past with her puppy dogs, Bill and Mr Bundy, heading for Burton Bradstock and the Chesil Bank. Some years later, one farmer-writer from these parts gazed at a fossil in his hand (he called them books of stone), thrown up from ploughed chalk on the downland. He looked out over the landscape, at ‘nature’s vast, relentless roll’, reflecting on the rise and fall of empires, the clash of nations, massacres and crimes, past glories of philosophy and art. He told himself, ‘Here, order does not break.’ Today the wind relentless as ever, I ponder the wonders of the modern age; the flushing toilet, running water, a mirror, a cooking fire.

 A semi-circular walk from Overcombe to Nothe Fort

I am not staying in the old seaport and pleasure resort, which was once called ‘The English Naples’. I never have, though I know several folk who booked a bed and breakfast or caravan over the years, enjoying the extended frontage – the bay is nearly five miles across. Such visitors were was once noteworthy, articles in the Dorset Daily Echo reporting the arrival of 500 families from the Black Country by train in just one weekend, determined to enjoy their holiday here in Weymouth, surely cementing its reputation as a premier destination with ‘wonderful sands, a good water supply and a splendid climate’. Had they a Black Country flag back then, they would have been as popular a purchase as those paper ones of the Union Jack, of Saint Andrew and the Welsh Dragon, along with miscellaneous emblems of France, Italy and Spain that adorned a thousand sandcastles. (I don’t remember there being an Irish flag available).

Though locals disdainfully called these holidaymakers ‘grockles’, a visitor in 1804 was far less charitable of the locale itself. He intended to visit his brother who was with the Royal Squadron in the bay. On arrival, he paid the modern equivalent of £58 to a local boatman who dropped him at the first royal barge in the bay they came across, which is then stranded in an impenetrable sea mist and while waiting for dawn runs foul of a cable. Finally he is rescued by the crew of a cutter at anchor who finally take him back to shore. Then he spends his first night’s lodging being tormented by all manner of vermin. He does eventually meet up with his brother, but during his stay he is not impressed by the countryside hereabouts, complaining that he can find no shade from the scorching sun. He thought it a bare and barren place, and the cost of staying here horrendous, prices inflated due to the King’s visit. When he left Weymouth after a week, he was forced to travel slowly as his horse ‘seemed literally starved, his ribs starting through his skin’, although he had paid an outrageous sum of one guinea for his keep.

Boating in Weymouth is recommended, as one guide from the 1930’s puts it: ‘the bay being free of dangerous currents and promiscuous rocks’. No mention of mist. I took my first cross-channel from here, for 48 hours in France, in storm tossed seas on the return. I have a strong unpleasant memory of sliding across the deck. There is a small memorial here now to the U.S. Forces who left from here to land at Omaha Beach, with a photograph of some of those soldiers marching down the Esplanade. Over half a million of them passed this way (those called 'The Greatest Generation', probably correctly so if we look to current models). The wind whips up the sand of the beach and a few people run with their dogs by the shoreline (please note, dogs banned from the beach between April and October). Here on a Saturday night in Spring 1946 a young woman was carried off these sands on the shoulders of a British soldier. She was hopelessly drunk. An American sailor was also helping carry her. They were stopped by P.C. Otter. The soldier said she was ill and he was going to take her to a room for the night. Neither soldier nor sailor were able to tell P.C. Otter her name or anything about her, so he took her into custody. She was later charged with being drunk and incapable. She was 19 years old, Polish, of no fixed abode; she said her name was Frances Kolosvonksi and that she had only arrived that day from Aldershot to meet her boyfriend who had been posted here. ‘It was the first time in my life that I had a drink and it will be the last time,’ she said. ‘I had an argument with my fiancé.’ The Chairman of the Magistrates Court concluded, ‘I shall think you are very ashamed of yourself, aren’t you?’ If this was a post-modern musical she might burst into song and say ‘You took the words right out of my mouth’. She meekly agreed, ‘Yes, very ashamed’. She was fined 10 shillings, which would barely cover a single room with breakfast at the Crown Hotel opposite the railway station.

A square walk around the walls with a loop south and east

 Loosely follow the perimeter of the old Roman town, marked today by Walks originally planted in the 18th century with lime, sycamore and more recently chestnut – these enclose three sides of the town. By more recently we mean over a century ago. A river walk demarcates the fourth side, where one arm of the Frome runs in an artificially constructed channel used for the water meadows that have kept the town from spreading to the north and north east. The river curves here round old sluice gates and the rise upon which is built the prison (itself on the site of a Norman castle) and beyond that the County Council offices. The excavations in this north west corner to build these offices in the 30’s revealed three roman town houses which were then preserved. One fragment of the original wall still remains, near the statue of Thomas Hardy. Crossing the Frome on the eastern side of the town, it is a short walk of two or three miles to the churchyard in Stinsford where his heart is buried beside his first wife.

On the south side, beyond the line of the walks, lay the site of the town market once busy every Wednesday with fat calves, sheep, lamb and pigs. Here there were markets for farm equipment and implements too; sales displays of new combined side delivery rakes and swath turners, a Watson and Harry 30ft elevator, a Bristol caterpillar tractor, mowing machines, plough and cultivator attachments. Now it’s a car park, charges vigorously enforced.

Across the road, next to the Victorian police station, is Maumbury Rings, the Roman amphitheatre. When the railways came, the engineer Mr Brunel wanted to cut right through here, as well as the ancient earthwork at Poundbury on the north west side of the town, thus raising the ire of many an archeologist and historian, who decried this proposal as the work of ‘barbarian perpetrators’ no less. Mr Brunel was reminded that it was the great Sir Christopher Wren who first marveled at the Rings and made them known to the worlds’ antiquarians when, en route to scry Portland stone, he asked for his coach to be stopped, in order to give them a thorough investigation. Brunel twisted his rails so as to avoid the ancient amphitheatre and built a tunnel under Poundbury, ‘as he may frequently have the opportunity of doing mischief, he would always be found most anxious to avoid it.’

A walk from West Chaldon, looking for the ghosts of poets

It is getting cold, they say there is snow in the North. Just before tea it was raining. She fills the fire grate with twigs she has collected, strips of hazel, then adds the shavings of logs and crumpled brown paper that the bread came wrapped in. She lit the fire and contributed some vitriolic love letters she had never sent, as well as scraps of her verse that had no satisfactory conclusion. Finally she tossed in a few logs of ash and yew. Their cottage was somewhat dilapidated but homely enough for the two of them and the room is quick to warm.

Her lover pulls a face and complains that, after one too many doses of veramon, she is prone to roaming about the place looking white and grim. Her mood lifts though when they walk the downs and follow the shady hidden paths. She is cheered at the sight of the local names: Scratchy Bottom, White Nose, Daggers Gate, Five Marys. They sit holding hands on the highest of the ancient barrows, the sea air invigorating their spirits. Then she truly feels as light as a feather. Later, she will listen to the gramophone and manage to scratch out few lines, something secular. She writes, perhaps for herself only:

 Is the hawk as tender

To the belly of its prey –

White belly wet with dew –

As I am to you,

In the same way,

My slender?

The President Decides

Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. ‘Why do we do it, Martin? This space travel, I mean? Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight. Never any rest.’

‘Maybe we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,’ said Martin.

‘No, there’s not is there? Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. ‘Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think that’s why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?’

These sentences are from a short story by Ray Bradbury first published in 1949, an author who revelled in the power and imagination of childhood, of magic, rocketry and science. As a teenager I devoured his collections ‘S is for Space’ and ‘R is for Rocket’ on my holidays in Dorset, sitting in the shade of the beach chalet, admiring the bikinis or watching the naval ships anchor in Portland Roads. Little did I know that near this very spot, back in 1946, Mr Hooper of Overcombe, Weymouth, looked out over much the same view and reflected on the power of the Atomic Bomb now in the hands of the Yanks. He had met enough of them over the last few years, 517,816 of their troops and 144,093 vehicles embarking for Normandy from this port alone, most of them decent enough sorts, but the recent public behaviour of their Joint Chiefs of Staff left a lot to be desired. (You will fid a small monument to those troops on the esplanade.)

He was particularly concerned about the effects of uranium. Thirty years of chemistry had led him to believe that May 15th, the date set for the atom bomb experiments in the Pacific Ocean, may be the end of us all. One was to be an airdrop, one underwater. His reasoning was that seawater contains traces of uranium, therefore any atomic explosion over the ocean will ‘almost certainly start off an ever increasing dissolution.’ In addition, he believed it was impossible to test the seabed for uranium; the testing area may therefore be over a large deposit and a catastrophe was surely waiting in the wings. To conduct the tests, 167 inhabitants were moved from Bikini Atoll to Rongerik Atoll, which had no inhabitants due to an inadequate water and food supply and also because of a belief that the island was haunted by the Demon Girls of Ujae. Regardless, the Americans moved 95 warships of all shapes and sizes to the test area, planning to assess their durability to nuclear attack.

As holidaymakers flocked to the coast again to enjoy the sun (though in reality the weather was mixed that summer), Mr Hooper sent letters to the Sunday papers, hoping for some reaction. He wrote: ‘Those of us interested in nuclear physics know of experiments which certainly seemed safe enough in theory, but which nevertheless ended fatally. Let us pray that this much vaster one does not end in disintegration.’ As they say in the local Dorset dialect, it’s a caddle – a puzzling plight, such a confusing situation that a man does not know what to do first. Some might say Mr Hooper was joppetty joppetty – anxious and agitated over the whole cantankerous affair. The world demonstrably did not end on May 15th, nor at the end of June when the first of three tests was actually conducted, no doubt he waited impatiently and wondered whatever would come next.

As the Americans were coming to understand the effects of fallout, in Paris the designer Louis Réard introduced a new two-piece swimsuit, which he called the bikini because ‘like the bomb, the bikini is small and devastating’. While the inevitable appearance of bikinis on the beach front at Overcombe might have led to an increase in his blood pressure, Mr Hooper would I think have been apoplectic had he been aware the US Army Air Force had put forward a plan to the Pentagon the previous September to destroy 66 Soviet cities and were demanding production of 204 atomic bombs to do so. As it was, production of 39 were approved to eliminate 15 first priority targets. Among them, it was estimated 6 each would be required for Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev, five for Lviv, four for Chelyabinsk, three for Tbilisi, two each for Baku and Grozny. While the majority of his cabinet and nuclear scientists supported the idea of international collaboration to control nuclear power and the abandonment of ‘the policy of secrecy’, the President sided with the military establishment and thus the arms race began.

I would like to thank the Mothership and Anna for the opportunity to ‘switch off’ from the normal daily clutter of life in the city (I had no mobile single or internet here, except when I went to the Dorset Heritage Centre, there catching up with all the Trump news); this was an opportunity to reflect on the stars above, the damp ground beneath my feet, without any other distractions to simply focus on what work I would like to do in the near future and what might be the content and purpose.

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